Of Math and Mountains
by Le Cinnamon Tea
Summary: Behind the numbers, data, and calculating logic, there is a still a resemblance of humanity. This is their story, a collection of flashpoints during a war that spans thousands of light years. Told from the perspectives of the TEC, Vasari, and Advent alike.
1. Chapter 1: The Defeat

A/N: Re-edited and re-uploaded.

* * *

**-Rear Admiral John Caradin-**

**-Etlanin System, 4.04.1346 TE-**

I watched as my home burned to the ground in a tide of nuclear fire.

The warhead had struck the Eastern continent, an intense burst of light that quickly led to ripples of earth-shattering heat waves which fanned out over the planet. Mountains groaned and cracked as the wave passed over them, entire oceans evaporated and turned into sizzling pools of radioactive waste within seconds. The greatest of Man's structures were ripped to shreds instantly. The iconic Rivera Memorial Spaceport, once the central hub of TEC commerce and later military operations in the star system, disintegrated and was wiped away in the blink of an eye. Every town I had visited, every city that I knew, every single geographical feature that I grew up with was simply gone.

Etlanin IV was once the bastion of the TEC's frontier expansion, a verdant symbol of a prosperous people reaching outwards. In a few minutes it had been utterly destroyed after being bathed in the power of the most destructive weapon ever constructed in humanity's history. All it took was a single message back to STRATCOM:

"Prolonged defense of Etlanin system untenable, request usage of Novalith Cannon for denial of strategic advantage to enemy."

–Rear Adm. Caradin  
TDN Akagi, _Akkan-_class Battlecruiser  
154th Flotilla

Humans have used scorched-earth policies as a military tactic for thousands of years. The Cossacks burned their own crops. We wipe entire planets off the galactic map. There was not enough time to dismantle the extensive, sprawling industrial centers on the planet. Even if we did have the luxury of a complete evacuation of our assets, Etlanin IV would remain a habitable garden world which the enemy could then use as a base of operations. With the main body of our fleet destroyed at the asteroid fields at the edge of system and the possibility of a ground war out of the question due to enemy's propensity for orbital bombardment, there was no choice but to withdraw as many people as possible and phase jump to next spot of TEC controlled space. After that, there was only one thing left to do.

Denial of further utility.

The Novalith Cannon is the ultimate weapon of the Trader Emergency Coalition. The concept is actually quite simple. Imagine a traditional rail gun design with two parallel plates charged with electric current, but measuring three times the length of a capital ship and operating on an immense power source that could supply a city with electricity for a year. A nuclear warhead, accelerated to 99.9% of the speed of light through the generated magnetic field, is enough to render a planet uninhabitable through sheer heat and radiation for years. Humanity had been designing military applications of rail guns ever since electromagnetism became a scientific pursuit, and the TEC came up with the Novalith Cannon in response to the growing desperation of the war. With projectiles fired at such high velocities, fortress worlds could be blasted from the comfortable position of a nearby star system. It was intended to eliminate strategic enemy strong points, punching a hole through the front lines which our fleets could then exploit. No one ever thought it would come to this, burning our own worlds to buy time.

My own homeworld turned into a floating husk with the push of a button. And it was my finger that pressed it.

I had a vivid childhood, living on the edge of developed lands on Etlanin IV. Armed conflict was a story of the past and our "navy" consisted of a few aging boats to deal with the occasional pirate raid. I remember…falling asleep to the sounds of faraway ships powering up their engines as they left orbit. Rivera Memorial Spaceport was a hundred miles away, but the sound of vessels coming and going traveled far.

There were entire summers that I spent exploring the untouched forests and rugged mountain ridges around my home. Skipping work in the fields to go off with my friends, pretending to be great adventurers discovering the new and unknown. Finding an ancient tree with massive gnarled limbs. Climbing to a peak of Eagle's Rest, watching the freighters journey up into the sky and disappearing into the clouds of the upper atmosphere. A…girl and I, watching those ships and promising that we'll both make it to the stars someday. She had hair the color of saffron. What was her name?

Perhaps she made it off planet-side in time. Or maybe she was one of the five million people we left behind. The five million that I condemned to die.

It's not the first time I've made sacrifices. I've been in command of fleets and left planets to burn before. There was not enough time; I ordered the remnants of the 154th Flotilla to withdraw from planetary orbit to prevent the Vasari from wiping us out. The evacuation of the populace was incomplete. The fact that this was my planet, my home, my memories, reminded me how dear the sacrifice was this time.

Some military analyst might praise me, congratulating me on maintaining an orderly retreat and still managing to get the majority of the population off planet. The psychologist would pat my hand, telling me that I did what I could and it's not my fault. "It's the Vasari," they'll say, "they're the ones responsible."

No. It wasn't the Vasari. Yes, they launched an offensive. But it was my orders to mount a defense of the Etalnin system. It was I who ordered Commodore Huerta to take a third of the flotilla and make a daring counterattack on the flanks of the Vasari invaders. I'm responsible for the naval personnel who died when that counterattack failed. In turn, I'm responsible for the haphazard withdrawal, so chaotic that _five million people_ got left behind to die. And I'm the one who put in the request for the Novalith Cannon. I'm the one who sat and watched as a TEC warhead raced across space towards my home world, for the sake of "strategic balance of the region."

And when I see the grieving widows and orphaned children, I will grasp my blue navy cap in one hand and solemnly say, "My condolences for your loss." As if a few words can mend a broken family or heal a thousand festering wounds.

Joining the Navy once was my ticket off to the greater galaxy. I planned on a few easy tours patrolling trade routes against pirates and then using the cash to make it big in the Core Worlds. It was a naïve ambition, a wish for something beyond the wheat fields and ship factories which characterized life on Etlanin IV. Climbing mountains wasn't enough. I was young, carefree, and wanted to reach for more. It was only one month after receiving my commission as an ensign that the news came of a frontier world under attack by a mysterious alien race.

It's been twenty years since then.

This war has dragged on and on. It's almost as if the thousand years of peace under the Trade Order never existed. All that matters is the threat to survival, the very real possibility of the extinction of the human race. For the first few months, when the first Vasari ships arrived, it was a war of confusion. We still attempted to negotiate and resolve the conflict with an olive branch in our hands. After the frontier worlds began to fall, it was a war of ideology and xenonationalism. The democratic Trade Order, centered on compromise and squabbling between planetary members, disappeared under the auspices of the militarized Trader Emergency Coalition. Citizens were called to arms to defend their way of life. Civilian freighters were cannibalized for their reactors, aging cruisers brought back into service. Propaganda went into full swing, portraying the TEC as an iron wall holding back the onslaught of the vicious alien hordes. We fought for every spot of dirt under a banner of pride and honor.

Now it is a war of survival. We've shakily stabilized some fronts, but many others remain hotly contested. The remaining half of our territory churns out ships frantically, but our forces remain scattered and hard-pressed. Every day the casualty list grows by the thousands. A fleet routed here, a squadron destroyed there. It's de-sensitizing as the innumerable tragedies turn into simple numbers on a page. Everyone has lost someone, whether it's in the hundreds of lives which are lost on a single naval ship or it's the people who are left behind during hasty evacuations. This war has reached a point where there is no difference between a million deaths and a thousand, only cold logic with regard to the overview of the war.

It is a war of math. A decision to reinforce a flotilla's defensive line or to allow those men and women to die in order to buy time is made by consulting a calculator and a map. There is no room for ethics anymore. Faced with no prospect of reinforcements, protocol dictated I deny the strategic advantage of this system. So I sent in the request for the Novalith Cannon, and burned away my birthplace along with any lasting sentimentality.

Etlanin IV will become a small negative mark on Command's glorified spreadsheet. But elsewhere, the ships that could have been used to reinforce my decimated fleet are providing desperately needed support to the defenders of other star systems. Those men can wipe the sweat from their brow and breathe a sigh of relief at the welcome sight of incoming TEC squadrons exiting from phase jump. While in our lonely corner of space, the crews grimly go about their duties, following a command which they have heard too many times before: Retreat.

By this time, the battlecruiser had turned completely around and proceeded to the far edge of the Etlanin system. My observation port in the command center only reveals the speckled darkness of space. I'm unfamiliar with the stars that greet me; every spot in the galaxy sees space differently. The grey hulls of nearby ships shine in the blue glow of their exhaust ports, many of which are freighters carrying those who managed to get off Etlanin IV in time. The command center is still bustling with activity. No one gets to rest until the dangers of the Vasari are well behind us.

One of the deck officers—a young lieutenant in a rumpled blue uniform—turns and calls to me, "The _Akagi _has reached its designated position and Captain Matthews reports that all civilian convoy ships are accounted for."

I curtly nod in acknowledgement and turn my attention to the communications operator, "Establish a channel. All vessels proceed to jump drive, ships carrying civilians are to phase only after the forward naval elements are on their way."

The operator quickly begins to relay the orders as I address the rest of the ship through the intercom, "All personnel, prepare for phase jump. Engineering, direct power to activate the jump drive and launch at my command."

At the nose of the ship, wispy tendrils of light appear, flashing yellow and blue and gold. The tendrils branch out into a corona of energy, swirling together with greater and greater speed. The observation port is completely blocked by this whirling maelstrom. I remember the excitement and slight fear I felt with my first phase jump, so many years ago, still nervously adjusting the pips on my collar and trying to anticipate what I would feel as the ship was launched towards the vast expanse of space. The steel plating which covered every inch of the interior of the ship was so odd and the smell of filtered air unsettling compared to the feel of grass and the smell of fresh air. Encased in a titanium hull, I left the forests and mountains of my adolescent memories and did not return until the blight of war brought me back.

"All ships are a-go."

"Jump drive fully powered."

"Sensors, green."

"Navigation, green."

"All naval personnel prepped for phase jump."

The remnants of our flotilla will get a few days of rest before heading back to the front. We could die next week, defending another TEC colony. Or perhaps destroyed in a surprise pirate raid, which is especially possible in the vulnerable areas behind our front lines. Our sacrifices may mean something, or they may not. Neither glory nor honor is at stake anymore. Our ships are coffins, with the number of stars on your lapel just a proportion of how many nails have already been hammered in.

As a young boy, I remember being awestruck with how immeasurably vast space is. It was a cool, summer night. Sleeplessly lying on pasture of dry grass, listening to the chirps of crickets and the distant hum of freighter engines. That girl, the one whose name I can't recall, was beside me. I remember the starlight dancing in her saffron hair. And then I looked up and saw the inky black darkness, with scattered rivers of bright spots of light radiating from giants made of gas and plasma. I had never felt so insignificant, so frightfully small compared to the universe above.

Perhaps that is why this war will never end. For every star that we defend, there is another for the enemy to attack. For every destroyed Vasari outpost, there is another asteroid which the enemy has established a position. Our front line is drawn out over hundreds of light years. Every gas cloud and every swirling center of dust and rock is a potential foothold. And yet, this conflict which has engulfed the lives of a quadrillion human beings is still utterly tiny in the eyes of the galaxy as a whole. And beyond this galaxy, lies hundreds and hundreds more. The distance stretches and stretches until the mind cannot even comprehend the numbers involved. There will always be more space to fight over.

"Admiral?" asks the operations chief.

Glancing over the green lights of the control panel, I turn to the command crew.

"Jump."

With that, we winked out of Etlanin system. The tendrils of energy fully enveloped the outer hull of the ship as it leaped forward. The phase jump brought nausea and headaches to the entire crew, but we were hurtling away to the embrace of safety. An ever so brief reprieve and then we shall fight once more. We'll soon battle over another planet, another asteroid field, another contested nebula. But there is still a flicker of hope within me. Maybe, just maybe, one day the guns will become silent. Vasari and human alike will be able to examine their sins and look upon their history to search for a solution to overcome the challenges we all face. One day when I can return to the ancient trees of some untouched forest and enjoy the smell of pine needles on a crisp morning.

For now, we remain two rival empires battling in our journey to reach out to the stars and beyond.

* * *

A/N: Note that I will be editing my previous chapters as I go along, as the story currently is based off of fleeting moments of inspiration as I go about my day and as a result sometimes turn out to be very, very flawed. I plan on writing this story from a collection of many different perspectives, which loosely weave together as I go along.

This one of my first attempts at creative writing, so thank you for reading and please leave a review! Harsh criticisms, unabashed praise, I welcome them all.

-CinnamonTea

Disclaimer: I do not own Sins of a Solar Empire.


	2. Chapter 2: The Raid

**-Lieutenant Commander Arryn Ramos- **

**-System "B15801", 5.20.1346 TE-**

Obscured by swirling clouds of dust and gas, a TEC fleet lay in wait.

It was a tiny, poorly-armed fleet by any standard. The thirty-six ships that composed Task Force 768 would not be able to hold out against a determined pirate raid, let alone go toe to toe against a Vasari squadron. The two dozen scout frigates and the handful of corvettes were not designed for protracted combat, but speed and stealth. The magnetized gas cloud would disrupt nearly all hostile sensors, but the Vasari had proven in the past to be able to pick up the communication transmissions between ships despite this protection. It was for this reason that the vessels maintained absolute silence in the molecular cloud, drifting and using only enough power for basic life support. There would only be two reasons to break radio silence: if their presence was discovered by a Vasari patrol, or if that narrow window of opportunity arose which would allow them to continue to the next phase of the mission. Automated sensor probes had been sent out before the task force had gone black, and their transmitted information would be vital in determining the right circumstances to move. This meant that every crew must have someone on deck at all times, ready to act in a moment's notice. However, in the command center of the scout frigate _TDN Mosca_, Lieutenant Commander Arryn Ramos was having a difficult time maintaining her attentiveness with the numbing effect of the silence of the ship.

Idly picking at the edges of the broken leather coverings of her chair, Ramos breathed a short sigh from the confusing mix of anxiety and boredom within her. The initial tension when Ramos had assumed watch had slowly bled away, replaced with an eerie uneasiness from the absence of the sound of the humming of power generators embedded deep within the frigate. No sensors and no shields. She would not be able to see an approaching enemy ship unless it decided to waltz right in front of the observation port. And if the _Mosca _was fired upon now, she would not realize the impending danger until the plasma ripped through the fragile ship's hull, killing all fifty-eight crewmembers aboard. The destabilizing effects of the molecular cloud on the frigate's sensors would supposedly ensure that any marauding Vasari patrol would face the same handicap, but any TEC naval officer worth their salt knew better than to become complacent in enemy held space. Ramos did not know the exact positions of the other ships, only that the _Savannah_, codenamed Alpha-Lead and the leading ship of the Task Force, was drifting about a mile close above her.

The operation itself was unlikely to begin for a few more hours—it would take time for their probes to gather and transmit the needed information—and Ramos had ordered the bulk of the ship's crew to catch a much-needed rest. It would have been unnaturally quiet even if the crewmen in the command center were present. Nobody had been feeling talkative recently, and Ramos did not blame them. Embarking on a suicide mission tended to do that to people.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the ship began to creak, and a steady groan echoed off the bare walls of the interior. The groan repeated twice more, and then the ship quieted down again. Occasionally the ionized gases in the magnetic cloud interacted with the metal of the outer hull, inducing a slight movement in the _Mosca_. Nothing dangerous, just unnerving as the silence returned.

_Like sitting at the edge of a black hole, about to be pulled in without warning, _Ramos mused. Then she sat up in her chair and leaned her elbows on the panels in front of her, scanning her eyes over the communication channels and reviewing the mission plan once more in her head as she kept her silent vigilance.

* * *

It had started six weeks ago when a TEC communications post received a burst of data containing hundreds of photographs sent by a probe via ansible. The probe which sent the data had originally been launched several years ago before passing through the Vasari "counterintelligence curtain". Vasari buoys located in deep space regularly broadcast magnetic pulses which fry any probe's electronics, eliminating its ability to receive or send data even if passing through phase space. While nearly all probes launched by the TEC are rendered useless this way, this particular one had miraculously managed to slip through.

The photographs varied in quality, many of them too grainy to be of any use. But some were clear enough to reveal an image as the probe's camera had focused in. They showed a volcanic planet, an angry blotch of rust-colored red against the black canvas of space. A massive structure was slowly orbiting that planet. It seemed to be a ring of some sort, and it dwarfed the other Vasari structures surrounding the planet. So large that the diameter of the ring was almost as long as the radius of the planet it was orbiting. On closer inspection, the ring was revealed to be a collection of separated pods set out in a single circular perimeter. Each "pod" was identical to the next, and was pointed inwards to the center. A horde of wasp-like construction ships were swarming around certain parts of the structure, busily adding repairs and metals. The structure seemed to be nearly finished.

It had obviously been an incredible endeavor by the Vasari to construct, and nothing like it had ever been seen before. The communications post which received these photographs quickly sent it up the chain to be dissected and picked apart by the successive layers of TEC Intelligence. Within nineteen hours, an analytical report had landed on the desk of the director of Special Naval Operations. Its conclusions were startling.

The ring structure in the photographs was a massive phase space stabilizer, wielding energy of unfathomable proportions. The Vasari had utilized phase stabilizers in past campaigns, allowing their fleets to quickly move from one star system to the next through the creation of a new linear pathway of phase space. These stable passages naturally appeared and had long been used by the Trade Order, but nobody had ever been able to artificially recreate one until the Vasari appeared. The TEC had never managed to capture a phase stabilizer intact in order to study _how_ exactly the Vasari managed to manipulate the planes of space and time, but it was speculated that the mysterious alien race was harnessing forces beyond the knowledge of human science to initiate a "window" through traditional spacial limitations which would allow superluminal transportation in the same way if a ship passed through a naturally occurring passageway. Before, the Vasari had been limited by the range and duration of stabilizing phase pathways. But the report hypothesized that if each "pod" in the ring phase space stabilizer was a conduit of the Vasari's harnessed energy, then the previous limits on distance and time would be exponentially larger. Combined with the morsels of information about Vasari history and culture held by TEC Intelligence, it seemed that this structure was copying the designs of similar behemoth stabilizers used thousands of years ago by an ancient Vasari empire.

The implications were clear. Although the exact purpose of the structure was unknown, it might be able to launch a fleet to anywhere in the Milky Way. Or even more ominous, be a gateway for Vasari elements located in other, previously thought to be unexplored parts of the galaxy.

The effect was sheer panic in TEC Military Command, followed by an intensive effort to form a solution to destroy the Vasari super weapon as soon as possible. Analysts pored over the photos, looking to identify weak points within the structure itself that could be exploited. Navigators and physicists tracked the location of the target star system, working alongside intelligence experts to map out various routes which could be taken to penetrate deep within enemy held space. Strategic Weapons Command was consulted for the possibility of an interstellar ballistic strike. Countless briefings and meetings were held with admirals and fleet commanders. The brash vice admiral of a frontier fleet even suggested an all-out offensive, attacking on every front to cripple the Vasari in a last ditch effort.

In the end, it was decided that a small, fast, and silent task force would be assembled to stealthily pass through the overlapping layers of the Vasari defenses and make multiple jumps through phase space. After landing in a nearby magnetic cloud, the task force could then attempt a surgical strike on the structure itself. The latest in TEC experimental devices would be used to give the ships a slight advantage over the anticipated Vasari defenses by the phase stabilizer. The majority of the task force would be loaded with specialized prototype plasma explosives which could be magnetically attached to key weak points between the "pods" of the ring structure. Placed carefully, the entire structure would be irreparably damaged upon detonation. The remaining ships would be a distraction force of corvettes who would cover the frigates on the bombing run.

A simulation predicted a 36.3% probability of success with this plan, at the cost of 89.0% of the ships involved being lost during the action. When factoring in the variables of the potential skills of the crews involved and the complete functioning of all experimental devices, that probability of success rose to 51.3%. Close enough to a coin flip, but better than any other options. Task Force 768 was authorized and signed into existence.

The scout frigate _Mosca_ was assigned for this special operation based on the experience of its crew. It, along with the other frigates given the task of destroying the structure, carried few ship-to-ship weapons, with its primary armament being its payload. If Task Force 768 managed to reach the target planetary system, its mission would be surprisingly simple. Move quickly, evade defenses, plant explosives on target structure, retreat and phase jump away. The corvettes would have a more difficult time, as it would be their responsibility to use burst electronic transmissions to scramble Vasari communications and automated defenses while simultaneously drawing away enemy fire from the frigates. In general, though, the mission was straightforward.

The naval personnel assigned to Task Force 768 were not allowed to call their loved ones in the days leading up to the departure, for fear of Vasari interception of TEC communications.

* * *

They had managed to complete the first difficult stage of the operation. Timing their phase jumps meticulously had allowed the task force to pass through several Vasari systems without detection. Upon arriving in a molecular cloud composed primarily of ionized gases, the motley group of Arcova-class scout frigates and Shriken corvettes was only a single jump away from the target star system. A few probes were hastily and covertly sent out to discretely gather information on the volcanic planet and the massive ring phase stabilizer orbiting it. To remain hidden, the task force powered down and waited, wrapping itself in the natural magnetic cloak of the cloud that would hopefully fool any unwanted sensors.

It was during this quiet time that Lieutenant Commander Arryn Ramos had an unusual amount of time to let her thoughts wander. Out in space, there was no real way to tell the passing of time besides the steady beat of her heart and the presence of a blue LED digital clock on the panel in front of her. The stars themselves remained the same, pulsing and radiating immense amounts of light from incredible distances away. It was frightening to know that, just one system away, the Vasari were building a structure which could harness energy that rivals those immense stellar giants. Ramos pursed her lips, as the terse, professional attitude she normally wore during operations faded and she allowed herself to indulge in a rare moment of doubt.

Ramos never considered herself to be afraid of death. She had set out on this mission without hesitation. Before becoming the CO of the _Mosca_, she had served on combat vessels on the front lines. Even after beginning to be deployed in solely reconnaissance and sabotage missions, she always knew that her job carried an almost inevitable probability of death. Eventually, Ramos felt that her luck would one day run out. In an ironic twist, it was almost comforting to be able to choose the site of her probable demise. She could have died in a freak aircar accident, or by succumbing to cancer, or through being vaporized if her ship's reactor spontaneously combusted. Ramos was going to be staring Death in the face, probably going down in a blaze of glory while, in the words of the admiral who debriefed the collective ship captains of TF 768, "_performing an invaluable service to protect the existence of your species"_. Any true patriot could not ask for much more than that.

Perhaps, then, it was only the absence of the sounds and smells of an active crew that had given rise to this lingering hesitation. It was easy and natural to fall into the patterns of the naval operations that had characterized the past six years of her life while surrounded by a dozen other men and women working side by side. The knowledge that over fifty other human beings would be moving about the ship, diligently engaged in maintaining the functioning of a multimillion credit warship, placed a responsibility on Ramos' shoulders that usually banished any apprehensions.

No, that was only part of it. Ramos was about to take part in a suicidal frigate pack charge against an alien race with entrenched defenses and pure energy-based weaponry. If the electronic countermeasures did not work, the whole task force might be wiped out right as they entered the system like an eraser on a chalkboard. In a few hours, thousands of lives might be sacrificed for nothing. Yes, that fear of failure and death was very real and Ramos sure as hell had a few good reasons to feel terrified.

_"Alpha Lead to Seven-Sixty-Eight, all vessels sound in now. All vessels, sound in."_ The baritone voice of Task Force 768's commander, aboard the _TDN Savannah_, crackled over the fleet-wide communication channel.

The sudden transmission jolted Ramos from her pensiveness. She quickly grabbed the headset of the ansible and pressed her thumb down on a key on the panel.

"Alpha Lead, Alpha-Four copy."

"_Alpha Lead, Alpha-Three-One here."_

"_Alpha-Seven, clear as crystal."_

"_Alpha Lead, Delta Lead copies."_

"_Delta-One-Two, we copy." _

The chatter continued as all thirty-six ships in the force responded immediately to Alpha-Lead's summons.

"_Seven-Sixty-Eight, first transmissions from the earlier probes have been received. Sending over copies now." _ Alpha-Lead curtly ended the transmission and linked the data to the other ships in the force.

An image bloomed up on the holoscreen in front of Ramos, bathing the darkened command center in a yellowish glow.

The picture showed that the ring-like structure was already finished. It was operating. Each pod in the phase stabilizer was blasting an intense ray of energy towards the center of the ring. In the very center, a dark purple-colored portal was frozen in the process of expanding out further. It resembled a gateway, only half opened.

"_Primary target has been activated and is clearly in the middle of use. Original operational time window has been advanced. Alert your crews and prepare to move towards Staging Point Zeta at -35, 76, 310 within one-zero minutes. Mission objectives unchanged. Alpha-Lead out." _

And just as swiftly as Arryn Ramos closed the holoscreen and deftly reached for the controls of the ship-wide intercom, the vestiges of the fear disappeared and were forgotten as the commander of the _Mosca_ fell back into a rhythm of war born out of years of experience.

* * *

Previously blending in perfectly with the molecular cloud, dozens of warships began to activate their engines. Visible light flickered through the observation ports as the TEC vessels started to give off their characteristic blue-hued exhaust. The formerly floating frigates quickly accelerated and coagulated together in formations, creating roughly six groups of the sleek, low-profile scout vessels. The Shriken corvettes raced to the front of the advancing groups of frigates and smoothly slipped into predefined attack squadrons. The saboteurs soon passed beyond the reach of the swirling ionized gas clouds, pausing to allow the few stragglers to move into position.

The voice of Task Force 768's commander came out over the communication channels. "_All ships, prepare to phase jump."_ A brief pause. _"And good luck to us all." _

The iconic blue and gold tendrils began to appear in front of the noses of the ships, flaring out in coronas with the exponential increase in output from their respective jump drives. Then the drives reached the "ceiling point", the target limit to initiate a jump through phase space. Thirty-six ships lurched forward and vanished from the magnetic cloud, leaping dozens of light years in a matter of seconds.

In the _Mosca_, Arryn Ramos gripped the armrests on her chair as the swirling tempest of colors flashed over the observation port. Any second now, they would be landing right next to the volcanic planet from the probe's photos. Ten other crewmen in the command center tensely manned their stations. The adrenaline beginning to rush was palpable. Ramos gritted her teeth. Any second now. It should be right about-

The virulent colors disappeared as the _Mosca_ violently exited phase space. Replacing it was the sight of the volcanic planet set against the starry canvas of outer space. But drawing Ramos breath away was the sight of the massive Vasari phase stabilizer in slow orbit. It was enormous, wide enough to probably allow three TEC capital ships to pass through side by side. It was activated, and the sheer amount of energy gushing from the twenty-some pods set around the circumference of the ring radiated in unpredictable pulses that illuminated the darkness of space.

One of the sensor technicians called out to her, "Commander! Alpha-Lead is proceeding at a bearing of 20, -5, 110 degrees!"

"Follow Alpha-Lead and assume position aft of the _Savannah's_ starboard side!" Ramos barked, seeing as the other vessels in their attack group were quickly forming up.

The formations of corvettes and frigates began to follow complex, choreographed maneuvers while rapidly closing the distance between them and the colossal Vasari structure. Surrounding the structure, orbital missile defenses began to activate and automatically zero in on the approaching TEC aggressors and the menacingly shaped Vasari hanger defenses were beginning to disgorge squadrons of single seat Vasari fighters and bombers. Milling around the phase stabilizer, disorganized groups of Vasari warships reacted to the task force's startling entrance.

"_Delta Squadron, activating countermeasures!" _barked Delta-Lead as a single formation of corvettes shot forward. Their burst transmissions flooded towards the Vasari positions. Briefly hijacking sensors and navigation, the Vasari ships and fighter movements became more sluggish as they were deprived of their ability to see or coordinate with one another. As the TEC ships passed within firing range of the Vasari missile defenses, they were not immediately targeted as the processing powers of the automated systems were overwhelmed by Delta Squadron's transmissions. The countermeasures were working! They would have a few more seconds to race towards the structure unharmed.

Revealed as dots on the holographic display, all four frigates in the _Mosca_'s attack formation moved as one group. Two other groups of the TEC scout vessels were ahead of them, pushing forward heedlessly in stark contrast to the fast, flanking movements of the Shriken corvettes. The three remaining groups of Arcovas were behind them.

"_ETA five minutes at current velocities to target structure!" _said Alpha-Lead over the ansible. They were close enough to make out the separate pods in the phase stabilizer. The portal opening in the center of the ring structure was wider, and Ramos could barely see…_something_ coming out of it.

"Nguyen!" Ramos directed at the sensor technician, "Tell me what the hell that thing is!"

Nguyen looked up at her, his shocked expression plainly visible. "It's uh, it's a _ship_."

Then the countermeasures' effectiveness ended as the Vasari systems retook control.

Missile fire poured down on the lead attack group. The sheer concentration of fire ripped through a scout frigate's armor, destroying it almost immediately.

"_Alpha-Lead to all ships on attack run! Begin evasive maneuvers! Delta and Epsilon Squadrons, head off those Ravastras!" _The corvettes began to weave through the plasma fire of the approaching Vasari warships while opening fire themselves, desperately attempting to avoid being hit.

The scout frigates separated and zig-zagged through the relentless fire as the Vasari fighters and bombers began to strafe their formations. The _Mosca_ dipped downwards, narrowly avoiding a missile which passed through the space it had occupied a few seconds prior.

"Receiving hits on the dorsal sides, Commander!"

"Redirect shield barriers from keel to dorsal side! Bow down fifteen degrees!" Ramos commanded.

"Velocity output at ninety-four percent!"

"Increase speed, we need to get to that structure now!"

"Alpha-Two-Three just went dark!"

"Where the hell are those corvettes?!"

All the while, the titan was almost a third of the way through the Vasari phase stabilizer. It was enormous, dwarfing the tiny TEC vessels which valiantly raced towards it. A massive, glowing cannon peaked through the portal and Ramos could now see a broad, arrow-head shaped outline which stretched the diameter of the ring. They needed to shut down that stabilizer _now._

Two Shriken corvettes lashed through the space to the right of Alpha-lead's formation, blasting the smaller Vasari fighters with flak. As the Shrikens turned around, one was hit by plasma fire and instantly exploded. The other continued on its path, strafing a Ravastra frigate and leading it away while nimbly dodging return fire.

"_That's our window! Go! Go! Go!" _a captain shouted over communications. The groups of Arcova scouts reformed and pushed towards the ring, taking fire all the way.

Ramos shouted to the _Mosca's _weapons officer, "Thirty seconds to target position! Prepare the payload for launch! Engineering, begin deceleration!" The harried crew in the _Mosca_'s command center stumbled as the ship began to slow down so as to not crash right into the phase stabilizer itself. They would attach their explosives to the pod at the three 'o'clock, while the other frigates aimed for their predetermined positions with missile and plasma fire raining down on them. The Vasari titan was still slowly emerging.

The _Mosca_ stopped a hair's length away from the surface of the pod, only about one hundred meters away. From this distance, Ramos could feel the heat that was coming from the lethal beams of energy pouring from the components of the phase stabilizer.

The weapons officer looked up from his station, "Payload is ready and activated!"

"Launch!"

Magnetic thrusters located in torpedo chambers at the nose of the ship reversed their polarity and shoved the plasma explosive through the chamber and out through the space between the _Mosca_ and the pod. It landed and clamped down on the metal surface of the ring as its timer started and began to tick its way towards zero. Nineteen other payloads slammed onto their target position and locked into place.

"_All ships, withdraw!" _crackled the command from Alpha-Lead. Just as the relieving words came through the ansible, several Ravastras redirected their fire which ripped through two more frigates.

They ran. The engines on the _Mosca_ groaned under the strain as they pushed themselves to escape as quickly as possible. Almost all the corvettes were gone, succumbing to the curtain of plasma which swept over their positions. The green blips on Ramos' sensors signifying friendly vessels began to disappear one by one as a tide of angry Vasari fighters and ships chased them relentlessly.

"_Ramos! This is Alpha-Lead," _came the strained voice of the commander of the _Savannah_, "_We are proceeding to Point Omega at coordinates 240, 17, -300. Stick to me like glue!" _

"Alpha-Lead, this is Alpha-Four. We're right on you!" The _Mosca_ shuddered as it took another hit. That one had almost breached their hull. Ramos turned her attention to the command crew, "Redirect power from non-essential systems to the shields! Now!" She then looked over at the weapons officer, who turned and held up two fingers. _Twenty seconds._

The Titan was halfway through the gateway when its cannon began to charge up. Rings of energy rapidly circled each other as their glow brightened. Nguyen, still manning the sensors, quickly relayed the readings to Ramos who soon recognized the danger.

"Take evasive maneuvers! Alpha-Lead, come in! Enemy ship charging its main cannon! Get out of its line of fire!" Ramos shouted over the ansible even as her ship took a drastic turn on its starboard side.

The Vasari Titan fired, a massive beam of directed energy that lanced across the planetary system, shredding the TEC vessels caught in the way. Ramos' ship managed to barely avoid it as they accelerated away, but the _Savannah_ was a second too late in making its maneuver. It was slashed in two as the Titan's cannon managed to catch Alpha-Lead's right side in its destructive thrust which passed through the scout frigate's thin armor plating like a knife through hot butter.

"It's charging up for a second attack!" shouted Nguyen as the Titan's build up of energy was easily picked up by the _Mosca's_ sensors. If they were targeted, Ramos knew that they were done for. No amount of maneuvering could save them from a more accurate shot.

The twenty seconds were up.

At the phase stabilizer, explosions rippled through its structures as the task force's payloads went off. The beams of energy which had been sustaining the portal abruptly shut off as the pods were destroyed and broke off from one another. The Titan, still not yet through the portal, was caught in the middle as the stabilizer which had been allowing its slow passage through phase space was crumbling. More explosions bubbled up and erupted on the surface of the Vasari behemoth as it was torn in half by the combined effect of the plasma explosives and the instantaneous destabilization of phase space it was passing through. The shock wave from the explosion swept out over the Vasari vessels, causing chaos and completely uprooting the pursuit of the remainders of the TEC task force.

Three other scout frigates and a single corvette managed to reach the withdrawal point with the _Mosca_.

Ramos opened up a channel with the other ships. "This is Alpha-Four, are all of your jump drives still working?"

Affirmations came from the other ship captains.

"Then let's get out of here. Movement Plan Beta," she said, signifying the jumps they would take to reach the rendezvous point before the attempt to head back to friendly space.

Arryn Ramos, exhausted, sat back in her chair as her ship's phase drive began to activate. She tasted blood in her mouth and spat it out. She had bitten her tongue during the operation.

The massive phase stabilizer confirmed Command's fears. It was acting as a gateway, recalling massive Vasari ships from elsewhere in the galaxy. She still knew next to nothing about it, but that ship was enormous. If it had managed to pass through or if Task Force 768 was a day slower, no amount of Coalition fleets would have been able to stop it.

It was mission accomplished, for now. They had suffered horrendous losses for what might be a stalling action. Ramos knew that this new threat had not been silenced completely. If the Vasari managed to build another one of these stabilizers and recall more Titans, the TEC was going to need a better plan to combat them.

* * *

A/N: SOSE wiki states that the Vasari build titans by actually using phase gates which recall ancient Dark Fleet Titans, hence all the theoretical information I made up about the science of phase space. Hope that it was clear the "ring structure" is really a Vasari Titan foundry. The events in this chapter are loosely based off of an actual occurrence during a multiplayer match involving massed Arcovas, explosives, and 100% casualties.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3: The Goodbye

**-Sylvani-**

**-Planet of Alessya, 6.08.1346 TE-**

"Beloved brothers and sisters, we must always seek to fulfill the legacies and surpass the deeds of our ancestors. Through faith and zeal the Unity has maintained the strength of its righteousness and has kept open the avenues of Enlightenment bestowed upon us. It is the will of the Advent which begs us to deliver Enlightenment for all. Thus is the Word of the Coalescents."

The priestess' voice echoed off the cascading, fluid walls of the temple and into the minds of the audience. Thousands of Advent dressed in identical robes bowed their heads, clasping their palms together and opening their collective minds to the passionate pulses of emotions flowing from the speaker.

As one, they spoke in perfect simultaneity, "**Thus is the Word of the Coalescents**_."_

The priestess smiled at the feeling of the Faith cascading from the synapses of her flock, and her white and blue robes began to glow with a golden hue.

Sylvani quietly snorted and coughed to cover it up the sound. _'Second Priestess of the Temple of Communion and she relies on parlor tricks to keep her audience enthralled.' _She directed the thought towards her companion standing on her right.

Silent laughter filtered back over the mental connection, '_At least she didn't sneeze in the middle of the sermon this time.' _Zia and Sylvani both smiled at the humorous memory. To any physical observer both women appeared to be the perfect image of a pious follower. Through the private mental channel they shared with one another, they were reliving the time when the Second Priestess had suddenly sneezed during a sermon, violently jolting eight hundred people from prayer as their collective minds were flooded with the jagged sensations of the Priestess' surprise and embarrassment.

They were no sneezes during this session, and the priestess continued:

"For through embracing the Power of the Mind, the Unity has remained pure. It is the will of the Advent that we commit to this glorious crusade and bathe the licentious Kingdoms of Sin in our illustrious light. Disorder, brought to balance. Chaos, returned to the righteous path. Unity, encompassing all. Thus is the Word of the Coalescents!"

"**Thus is the Word of the Coalescents."**

Discretely closing the mental connection with the repetitive voice of the priestess, Sylvani inwardly sighed and wondered when was the soonest time she could leave without lasting consequences.

When the sermon ended and the thoroughly-enlightened Advent filtered out of the glass doors and down the marble steps of the Temple, Sylvani and Zia walked together and chatted while admiring the commanding view of the city as they descended.

Their appearances were very similar, in some aspects, as was with most of the Advent. White robes with blue trimmings were the standard dress, the only difference being the symbols woven into the shoulder of the synthetic clothing which designated the wearer's caste. Sylvani and Zia were both Psintegrates, and their implants reflected this. Besides the countless genetically modifying drugs within them, visible metallic lines ran underneath their skin, flowing along their blood channels, nervous systems and combining together to disappear behind the hairlines on the back of their neck. These implants eased the connection from the Mind to the rest of the Body, amplifying their psionic abilities. But the differences in their professions was reflected in definite ways.

Zia was a Psintegrate on an Aeria Drone Host in the Advent Fleets. She, along with the other powerful Psintegrates there, would be responsible for controlling the swarms of drone fighters and bombers through a combination of psionic power and telekenesis. The glowing lines of the implants thus thickened as they neared her hands. Zia's hair was snowy white and her eyes equally shining and glowing white, showing the effects of her heavy-handed usage of PsiTech.

Sylvani worked in the dockyards, and the often subtle, artistic touch that was needed to manipulate the metals used to build the ships showed in the delicate ways the implants connected from her eyes to her fingertips. Her eyes were unnaturally blue, a side effect of another implant at the back of her skull which allowed her to delve into the atomic structures of metallic elements.

"A beautiful day, isn't it?" said Zia.

It truly was. A brilliant blue sky speckled with fluffy, white clouds. The towering spires of the city gleamed in the sunlight which contrasted with the massive green grass parks set up at regular intervals between the urban structures. Far off in the distance, a needle-like space elevator shot up to the sky for as far as the eye could see and then disappeared in the clouds of the lower atmosphere. It was the physical link between the planet and the dockyards orbiting far above them, and a symbol of the technological achievement of the Advent.

Sylvani smiled, "Indeed it is."

"One of the Psintegrates aboard my ship said that there had been great advancement in the biospheric artificial weather controls. Those living on inhospitable worlds will soon be able to enjoy these climates."

Sylvani shook her head, "I suppose some will celebrate that achievement. But I have always felt there's something fascinating about the natural occurrence. The unreachable and un-replicable."

"Our inability to recreate with our minds and technology what appears through the forces of the Universe?" Zia questioned.

"Precisely. For all the…'words of the Coalescents' about the ultimate Truth which is reached through the connection of metal and mind, I cannot help but see the divinity in the organic," she vaguely gestured her hand to the people on the steps below them, "or the beauty present without the application of genetically-manipulating elements."

Zia was silent.

Sylvani, seeing this, quickly added, "Not to say the integration with technology does not bring about Enlightenment. Nor that the psionic powers of the mind are not impressive and awe-inspiring in their own right. Simply, that I am certain that there is another way."

Slowly looking up and then smirking, Zia spoke, "The Unity does, by definition, allow each individual to pursue their paths in which manners that they see fit."

"Unfortunate that the Unity disavows anyone whose path leads them to refuse joining the collective."

"Unfortunate, indeed," Zia turned to Sylvani, the silver lines of her implants glinting through the pale flesh of her skin, "You're lucky that we're such good friends. You would have been turned over to the Eyes a dozen times over by now if you were telling this to someone else."

"It is the will of the Coalescents that I share all thoughts and emotions, is it not?" Sylvani responded.

Sylvani was taught from a young age to embrace the supposed absolutism of technology and the collective mind of the Advent, reaching Enlightenment through the possession of psionic power. Gifted, or damned, with a piercing logic, she never truly accepted those teachings, even as the expectations of her culture fortified around her. At a time when most Advent her age were fully integrating themselves with those spiritual requirements, she had remained slightly disenchanted with the contradictions that appeared in every mandatory sermon at the Temples. Sylvani had long learned to disguise these doubts. There were few people she could trust with her true feelings about the Unity's doctrine, Zia being one of them.

By this time, the two women had reached the bottom of the steps. In front of them lay a milling crowd at the platform for the transportation lines, of which there were two main routes that split and divided as they passed among the city's spires in opposite directions. On either side, the steps continued to the vast gardens and lakes which expanded out from the base of the temple.

"When does your vessel leave?"

"Two days. We're leaving and will meet up with the other elements of the vanguard in the Tieralis Sector before moving to the staging points." Zia and Sylvani were standing near the back of the crowd, closer to the steps leading down. "I wished to head down to the gardens. It will be some months before I can visit once more, and it will do me well to enjoy a peaceful moment while I can."

"I would join you, but I have to return to the dockyard. We are building another Domina cruiser, and the materials are exceptionally difficult to manipulate." Sylvani briefly glanced over at the Advent waiting at the lines, and then turned back towards her friend and opened a mental channel to her. She wished her thoughts to remain private.

"_I cannot help but hesitate at this decision to attack the Trade Order." _Sylvani looked directly at Zia, their blue eyes connecting.

"_Sylvani, it is our duty. Responsibility. They attempted to destroy our ancestors, our actions will avenge those wrongs."_

Sylvani physically frowned. "_A vengeance on whom? The sons and daughters of a race which dealt us wrong a thousand years ago?"_

_"I see the cause of your trepidation. But is it not the will of the Coalescents, the wisest and most powerful, that we carry the light to the darkest parts of the galaxy, opening the path of Enlightenment for all?"_

A short jolt of irritation as Sylvani allowed Zia to feel her distaste for the supposed infallibility of their leaders. "_The Coalescents themselves don't agree on that. Even as they present a united front, I can feel the disagreements among certain members."_

_"We are the Advent, a collective of individual paths. Of course there are disagreements."_

_"If our own scryers do not know the absolute truth, then how can we decide the beliefs of the humans of the Trade Order? What decides our mandate?"_

"_Your arguments shatter the strongest walls of orthodox doctrine." _Zia smiled, "_But do know that I will not abandon my sisters in the fleets. We have trained for this for our entire lives."_

Sylvani relented in a huff, and withdrew from the synaptic link.

Zia was still smiling in a good-natured manner, "Cheer up. The scryers of the Ast Eternal say this war will end as soon as it begins. A few months, and we'll have victory. I'll be back before you know it."

Sylvani, briefly letting go of the ideological misgivings, stepped forward and embraced her. _Stay safe._

Behind them, a silver, bullet-shaped train glided to a graceful and silent stop. Its doors opened and Advent began to file in.

Zia returned the hug. "Your line has arrived. You wouldn't want to miss it."

Sylvani gave one last squeeze and then left towards the awaiting doors. She was the last to step through, and then turned to look back as the doors closed. Through the clear glass, she could see Zia give one last wave and then turn to walk down the steps as the train pulled away from the station.

It was the last time the two friends ever saw one another.

**Codex Entry: Psintegration and Ship-Building**

Like all psionics, Psintegrates utilize their mental synapses to affect the outside world. While scryers focus on using this power to "see" various visions of the future brought about by an exploration into space-time on a quantum level, Psintegrates specialize in manipulating physical manifestations through the sole application of their minds, an ability allowed through the increased sophistication of Psionic Technology, or "PsiTech".

Psintegrates of varying skill can be found through Advent-held space, whether in the military, mining operations, research and science enclaves, or religious Temples, but the fundamental nature of their ability is most easily seen and explained among the Psintegrates of the ship-building caste.

They are the reason why Advent vessels have advanced shield generators and expertly alloyed hulls. Through implants that enhance their inherent ability to alter the material world via extending the range of the electrochemical pulses of cranial neurons, Psintegrates are able to manipulate the wavelengths and frequencies of matter at a subatomic level. The most intricate of Advent vessels are built from tapping into matter waves of the smallest elemental particles, allowing manipulation of a microscopic level. The Advent who then crew the vessel in question are able to integrate with the workings of the ship itself due to the tampering of the ship-builders, drastically improving its survivability and maneuverability.

The highly sophisticated force-fields of Advent ship shields are the result of superheated ionized molecules, or plasma, which are suspended by a magnetic field and projected around the subject. While the Trade Order has utilized shields of a similar concept for many centuries, there is a continual limit on the power of the ship shields based on their capacity to maintain the molecules in a plasma-state. The Advent, through the expert particle manipulation of the Psintegrates, have been able to eliminate that limit by causing isolated, self-induced chain reactions within the superheated molecules to maintain the plasma-state without a significant loss in atomic stability. As with all force fields, Advent shields will break down after heavy strain, but has been experimentally shown to be of a far longer duration than comparable Trade Order constructs.

This manipulation of particles and light through tweaking the wavelength forms of both electromagnetic radiation and matter is the basis of all Psintegrate applications in Advent society.

A/N: The Advent are particularly difficult to write and I am still unsatisfied with this piece. Later chapters will hopefully expand on the nature of Advent society and their awesome technoreligious government. The brief parts of the sermon at the beginning of this chapter were loosely based off of Pope Urban's speech who was urging for what would become the First Crusade.  
Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4: The Unknown

**Selected TEC CyberSecurity Voice/Visual Recordings, 6.14.1346**

* * *

**TEC Military FLEETCOM, Luna Base, 0740 GST**

*Two men in military uniform walk into elevator and doors close behind them as elevator ascends*

"Have you seen the reports?"

"I have."

"Christ, what a mess. Three entire systems lost in a day. We had the 55th Reserve posted there, and they were cut to shreds. I say it's a miracle they got the word out at all."

"We're going to have to shift our fleets to oppose this new threat. Cancel any major offensives against the Vasari, as well."

"Admiral Thorman isn't going to like it. He spent months arguing for that liberation campaign."

"Thorman is a soldier, he might complain loudly but he'll do what he's told."

…

"Mitch?"

"Mmhm."

"Who…_what_ are we even facing? Another hostile alien race?"

"Maybe we can ask these ones why they hate our guts."

*Elevator doors open, both men exit. End footage*

* * *

**RECONCOM Post Seraphim, [LOCATION REDACTED], 1020 GST**

*Crackles, audible signal interference*

_"Overwatch, this is Sparrow-Three, we have visual on Object S93a. Appears to be intact military vessel, probably Kodiak-class. Repeat, Object S93a in good shape."_

"What are your sensor readings on possible hull breaches or on the status of S93a's reactor?"

_"Completely intact, Overwatch. Sensors show their reactor was disabled but it's currently running. Vessel has not moved or responded to repeated hails."_

"Any readings on previously unidentified objects around the Riebalius Colony?"

_"Large amounts of debris. Looks like the squadron was caught completely by surprise and wiped out. Wait, correction. Several more vessels, intact, around Riebalius colony itself."_

_"_You're certain these are ships from the Riebalius squadron?"

_ "One hundred percent. Sending over sensor readings now."_

"Yup, it's them. Or what's left of them. Object S93a matches the description of the TDN Espirit, Kodiak Cruiser."

_ "Overwatch, request permission to move closer and attempt contact over radio channels. Maybe something fried their ansible."_

"Permission granted. Proceed with caution, Sparrow-Three."

*Inaudible*

"_We've got nothing, Overwatch, not even a whisper from the Espirit. Shall we continue towards the space station itself?"_

"Negative, Sparrow-Three. Retreat to boundaries of gravity well and await arrival of Sparrow-Four. Their sensors might be able to pick up on something that yours missed."

*Increased signal interference, more crackles*

"_…ultiple contacts! S..ors...weapons fire from Object S…! _

"Sparrow-Three, please repeat last transmission. There's too much interference."

"_Hull breach…the cruiser has…..another salvo! Struc….integrity…twenty percent!... epeat…fired upon by the Espirit!""_

"Sparrow-Three, come again? You're being fired upon by TEC vessels?"

*static*

"Sparrow-Three, come in. You still there?"

*static*

"Hello? Hello? Come in. Sparrow-Three, come in."

*end recording*

* * *

**TDN Aceron, Marza-class Dreadnought, Eastern Sectors of TEC Territory, 1300 GST**

*Four naval officers standing around holographic map display in command center*

"What the hell are we waiting for? That's a distress call and we ought to respond right away!"

"Jones, we've got no idea what we're facing. And we've lost contact with other planetary systems besides this one. We can't charge blindly in based off of a few broken transmissions."

"The longer we wait, the more time the Vasari have to wipe out any remaining defenders. We need to move now!"

"Gupta is right. Too many variables, too many risks. Not to mention that there's a rumor that this isn't the Vasari we're facing, which explains why this strike seemed to come from nowhere."

"Oh, you have another secret that you're withholding from us, Haverson? Is this all another sim thought up by your intelligence buddies?"

"Captain Jones! That is enough!"

*uncomfortable, tense silence*

"I'm the admiral of this fleet, and I say we don't know enough. There's no point in getting ourselves killed just yet. I recognize the star system in question holds some personal value to you, Captain Jones, but I have no intention in walking right into a probable trap. Nor will I tolerate you harassing your fellow officers.

"Sir, I…*inaudible*. I formally request permission to investigate. I can take my squadron there and phase jump back within a couple hours."

"Negative. Scouts have already been sent, and you would do more good making sure your ships are in order."

"…Understood, sir."

*Captain Jones exits the command center*

*Remaining men look at one another*

"Captain Gupta, you are dismissed as well. Keep your squadron on alert and ready to move in twenty minutes notice."

"Yes, sir."

"Haverson, please stay for a moment."

*Captain Gupta exits*

"That was insubordination if I ever saw it."

"Jones is a good man, he just sometimes lets his emotions get out of control. I give him a pass this time around."

"He's got family on Theiros, right?"

"A brother in the naval defense force there, as well. I understand the position he's in."

"Damn."

"What has Naval Intelligence got on what we're facing?"

"Nothing much, sir. They're just as clueless as we are. Seems like there were reports of unusual disturbances in phase space around Theiros about a day ago. Few hours later, comms were flooded with distress calls from TEC ships, military and civilian. Whatever it is that attacked, they wiped out the 55th Reserve before the end of the day."

"Those men and women must have been taken completely by surprise, being attacked so far behind the front lines with the Vasari."

"What do we do if these hostiles aren't Vasari?"

"We've had to deal with unknowns before, Commander Haverson. I think we're better at adapting this time around."

*end footage*

* * *

**TEC Naval Intelligence Section One, Luna Base, 1730**

*****Woman walks into office of Director of NavIntel, SecOne*

"Here, I think we found something big. Based off of our first intercepted communications of the attackers, we might have a bead on what they are."

"Everdeen, why on Earth do you insist on using paper reports? You know it's much faster to just send a copy to my holo."

"Call me old-fashioned, sir. ...And it's more satisfying to slap a paper copy down onto a desk to make an impressive entrance."

"…Tell me again why you're still working for me."

"To quote the words you gave me several weeks ago after that capital ship report, I am 'the best damned analyst you've seen in this section since the beginning of this godforsaken war'. Sir."

*Audible sigh from the Director, who rifles through the report*

"Well sir, what do you think?"

"I don't know. It sounds awfully far-fetched. And you're basing all of these assumptions off of a few dusty records about an event that happened a thousand years ago?"

"The records say that the Trade Order forcefully exiled the people living on a desert planet around a red star, the justifications being clear evidence for deprave socially-accepted mores and experimentation in morally unjust psychological and technological integration. These people had a weird, religious fanaticism about the whole thing too, something about achieving one-ness and unity with one another. So the Order kicked them out of known space, and they were never heard from again."

"And this ties in with the unknown force currently trashing our eastern sectors…how?"

"Some of our listening posts intercepted, well, more like directly received, several messages. Most of it was nonsense, but they picked out a few key phrases that were broadcasted over and over. 'Advent', 'Enlightenment', and 'Embrace the Unity' were the ones said most often. In our language, no less."

"A religious similarity?"

"The people living on the desert planet are reported to have said many of the exact same things in their temples a thousand years ago."

"Are you telling me that this new threat is not only a force which has developed in isolation for the past thousand years, but actually the descendents of exiled human beings with a score to settle?"

"Fanatically religious ones with a score to settle, sir."

"Damn it, that's the worst kind of combination. All right, I'm still skeptical but if this turns out to be true, it would explain many of their motivations and methods."

"I'm also collecting preliminary reports from some of our scouts investigating TEC positions that went black in the past couple days. This might sound unbelievable, but, well, we think there might be evidence that these new hostiles have powers of, uh, a sort of…telepathic nature."

*silence*

"Everdeen, have I told you how much I hate you for always bringing bad news?"

"Yes sir. Yes you have."

*end footage*

* * *

**TEC Naval Space Station Delta, Taurus Sector, Eastern Command, 4****th**** Fleet Group HQ, 2210**

*****Man points towards holographic display, addressing two men wearing admiral insignia*

"This is best visual we have of a ship the hostiles calling themselves the 'Advent'. That name itself was intercepted by Intelligence listening posts. This ship in question got knocked out by a couple lucky shots from a fighter detachment on the _TDN Logonis _as it tried to jump away to safety. The Advent vessel here suffered a hull breach, and we're confident that it's completely dead now. But we can examine the workings and materials that were used to build it. We believe it was a scout ship of some sort. We're still examining the relative strengths, but it seems that their shields and antimatter reserves are far tougher and larger than our own Arcova scout frigates while being slightly less durable in hull strength."

"Interesting. Not incredibly helpful, a chance to examine their combat vessels would have been better. Any other hypotheses?"

"No, sir. The engineers are cracking it open in zero-g dock as we speak, they'll estimate a complete analysis within twenty hours."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Ross. If that is all you have for us, you are dismissed. Let us know of any new developments."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

*Lieutenant Ross exits*

"I really don't like this."

"Neither do I, John. We're facing another faction with technology on comparable levels with the Vasari."

"As long as these 'Advent' aren't building anything like that Titan what Task Force 768 encountered deep in Vasari-held space, we might have a chance of stopping this offensive."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Vlad, we need more data. More than we'll get by spending twenty hours examining a single scout ship. Not only information on the types of ships the enemy has, but their firepower, shield technology, mobility, et cetera. We're getting none of that by jumping at shadows and letting Intelligence tip-toe around in the dark to gather rumors."

"You're referring to the fact that no scouts have been able to get a clear image of their fleets."

"It's obvious the ones that have gotten close enough were destroyed before they could transmit. Right now, we're reading zeroes of any possible enemy movement across the board. I say we start a small skirmish, get that data, and then retreat back to a reinforced defensive line."

"You're asking for martyrs, John."

"I'll volunteer to do it. I'll take my flotilla."

*silence*

"Your ships got mauled last engagement with the Vasari in the Etlanin system. Are you sure that you're willing to put them in a grinder again?"

"The 154th Flotilla is the best equipped for a mission like this. I trust every last one of my men. And I'll be leading it, so I know what I'm asking of them."

"…Is there any other alternative at our disposal?"

"It's either run this risk or be completely unprepared the next time the 'Advent' decide to advance. You and I both know how that equation works out."

"...All right. Fine. Consider this mission approved, Rear Admiral Caradin. I expect a fully detailed operation plan by 0900 tomorrow."

"Will do. Thank you, sir."

"…I just wish it didn't have to come to this."

"It's a war of math, Vlad. The 154th and I know that more than anyone else."

*Admiral Caradin exits, end footage*

* * *

**Codex Entry: Trader Emergency Coalition, Department of Naval Intelligence**

The Department of Naval Intelligence was the product of the amalgamation of several intelligence agencies which existed prior to the war. Pre-First Contact, intelligence bureaus in the Trade Order focused on tracking fringe pirate groups as well as the rare politically-motivated insurgencies. With the encroachment of the Vasari and the formal creation of the militarized Trader Emergency Coalition, a centralized intelligence agency was envisioned to more efficiently coordinate the defense efforts.

During the course of the early years of the war, the Department of Naval Intelligence was quickly recognized as one of the most vital elements in the TEC armed forces. Even after the creation of a new, unified navy in the Trade Order, it was the data from Intelligence elements that allowed the inferior TEC fleets to avoid complete destruction at the hands of their alien foes. With the onset of a prolonged stalemate between the two factions, Naval Intelligence has refocused their efforts on recovering Vasari technology to be reverse-engineered.

It is notable that the Department has adapted to the requirements and changes in momentum during the war which has significantly expanded their role out of the original mandate of providing intelligence for strictly military areas. The relatively great amounts of freedom given towards current Naval Intelligence operations has not been without its critics, particularly due to uninvestigated claims of questionable actions taken towards certain elements within the Trade Order and the TEC Military itself. While disapproval has been largely muted, these claims have led to some cases of antagonism between Naval Intelligence operatives and regular military personnel.

The various subdivisions and sections of Naval Intelligence are broken down as follows:

-**Naval Intelligence Command** (INTELCOM)

-**Section One** (Intelligence, Central Directory)

-Office of Military Intercommunication

-Reconnaissance Command (RECONCOM)

\- _Long Range Reconnaissance Forces_

-Cybersecurity Section One

\- _Cyber Warfare Division_

-Special Clandestine Activities Division

-**Section Two** (Intelligence, Internal Directory)

-Nuclear Weapon Security Overwatch

-Interstellar Intelligence Advisory

-[REDACTED]

-Counter-Insurgency and Terrorism Units (CITU)

-**Section Three** (Counterintelligence)

-Electronic Warfare Division

-_Cybersecurity Section Two_

-Psychological Warfare Division

-[REDACTED]

-[REDACTED]

-Office of Special Planetary Activities

-**Section Four** (Support)

-Operational Medical Services

-Strategic Investment Assurance Team

-Special Operation Analysis Team

-Mission Integration and Critical Mission Assurance Division

-**Section Five** (Research and Development)

-[REDACTED]

-[REDACTED]

-[REDACTED]

-[REDACTED]

-**Section Six** (Resource Analysis and Recovery)

-Xeno Resource Recovery Command (XCOM)

-_Special Warfare Recovery Teams_

_-Recovery Intelligence Division_

-Office of Resource Assessment

* * *

A/N: I really enjoyed this experimental style of writing here, hopefully it conveys the confusion and chaos in TEC command that would ensue as a result of a surprise attack. I ended up putting a lot of unused background information in a codex entry. Writing like a dry textbook is a guilty pleasure for the academic side of me, but hopefully the extra information is interesting for some people.  
I can haz reviewz?


	5. Chapter 5: The Execution

**-****** Vacek Tu'Chur, **Second Commandant of the Line-**

**-_Cuvorak_ orbiting Planet of Karsalis, 6.16.1346-**

Failure.

Such a heavy word. It is ejected like poison from harsh, malignant lips, echoing off the walls and down through the chamber. The silence which follows in its wake is deafening. It drips like a black ichor off of spiked balconies, sliding over the unforgiving slabs of stone, coming to swallow the creature lying prostrate in front of the tribunal and drag it down into the maw of the Void. Like chains it shackles the creature to its inevitable demise, suffocating hope and blanketing its face as it is pulled down into the harsh earth, a black hole to never emerge from again. It is a heavy word. One that condemns the most distinguished to the same horrible fate.

It was not barbarism that I felt when former First Admiral Vaekus was bound to the block and the honor guard executioner raised the menacing halberd above his head. Nor was there a reaction of disgust when the dark blood stained the floor in front of the unsympathetic eyes of the Court. It was justice, in its pure, naked form. Such raw and brutal enforcement is the binding maxim of our people, as we, more any other species in the galaxy, know the consequences of failure.

I did feel pity. A minuscule, fluttering moment of pity for _him_ who suffered this moment of enduring agony, whose name will never be spoken but in relation to other acts of infamy. Erased from the wall of honor, any victory he once achieved is severed irreparably from what he is now. I felt pity for a loyal commander who was sentenced for a series of events outside of his control. I felt empathy for someone who sallied forth countless times, throwing himself forward to stem breaches, shatter defenses, and lead demoralized crews by example. Lauded and hailed, showered with praise and the fruits of glory, he was a symbol of courage. Now he will be remembered only for this first, inexcusable transgression of duty and thought of through a narrowed veil of hate. Labeled as a mere _creature, _a non-being no better than a slave whose soul will wander the planes of solitary unconsciousness for eternity. I felt pity.

But the iron walls descended once again and silenced the instance of weakness. Pity earns me nothing. Earns _it _nothing. It means nothing. Duty, honor, and victory are everything. They are the only words which matter, filling up the empty space and banishing the fear, the empathy, and the weakness, coming together to resemble the rhythmic beat of war drums and reinforce lessons learnt long ago. I _must _not fail like this disgraced commander who trembled and wept as the indiscriminate punishment for defeat was hammered like an iron stake into harsh reality. For with the Vasari, failure is never, and will never be, tolerated.

The headless corpse was dragged to the side by two attendants to be disposed of in the trash compactors. The drum beat quieted to a murmur and after a long moment the assembled audience began to leave the courtroom. The toxic smell of blood and hatred which clung to the jagged walls became too overbearing and I inserted myself in the exiting throng to leave. Feeling eyes following my movement, I suppressed the urge to glance back at the members of the tribunal. I needed to find a place to breathe.

* * *

The Jarrasul Evacuator is the largest vessel out of the Vasari capital ships. With a crew complement of fifteen thousand Vasari and always carrying a large population of citizens, an Evacuator maintains a continual presence in the very center of a Fleet. They were the mother ships, the heart of the Vasari, a center of government and society for a nomadic species. The direction and commands which diffused out from the High Council located in the Jarrasul Evacuators struck a balance with the relative autonomy of subordinate flotilla warlords, and, despite the chaotic structure from an outside perspective, the sprawling fleets could always be wheeled about in one direction or the other. In our turbulent journey over the millennia, the Evacuators remained the most important ships for they, unlike any combat vessel, ensured the security of the survival of the Vasari culture.

The stagnancy of the past twenty years is troubling. This war with these humans, the Traders as they call themselves, has grounded to a halt. Our few mother ships no longer travel together in a cocoon of a thousand Vasari cruisers, but have been spread out over controlled space and used to assist in colonizing and developing our strongholds. The Evacuator _Cuvorak_ keeps a stationary position above the habitable planet of Karalis, acting as the unofficial seat of the Vasari High Council and the judicial nine-member Tribunal. It plays a shallow substitute role of that of a home world. Our ineffectual military campaigns stem from the orders right here, ships move regularly between space stations, trade docks, and the _Cuvorak _itself; the settlements on the planet below were the byproduct of an overflow of population and a need for steady sources of food close by. It is by no means lacking protection, as Karalis bristles with orbital missile platforms and an entire fleet group patrols the nearby star systems in vigilant sweeps.

My instincts scream, an innate response built in from twenty-eight cycles of life spent in training and warfare. Examining the crowds which noisily move about on the lower tiers of the mother ship, I can sense the complacency hanging over them as a result of years of artificial stability. It's as if the teacher from my youth in the military enclaves is behind me, shaking his head in frustration at the weakness. _Staying still is death, _he would say, probably before lashing at my skin with the electric whip. I lean on the railing, gazing down and down until the figures of the Vasari hundreds of meters below are naught but undistinguishable dots. The air is slightly better than the blood-stained walls of the tribunal courts tucked away in the bowels of the _Cuvorak_, but only just. It tastes stale.

"Vacek."

The curt greeting breaks off my reverie. In my peripheral vision, I see a gnarled visage, criss-crossed with scars.

"Hail, Turakas." A grunt responds to this, as gauntleted arms rest themselves on the railing beside me.

After a brief moment, I hear his gravelly voice speak up. "Twenty years past, every one of those people would be involved in some sort of function of running the ship."

I glance over at the warrior. "Aye. Now they're shopping for the latest fashions."

Turakas harrumphs, his lined features grimacing slightly. "It's not their fault. This blasted war has dragged on too long—they are far enough from the fighting that they have long learned to ignore it." He looks down at his armored gauntlets, as if tracing the worn edges and scratches of the titanium plates. "Seeing a handful of scars once in a while isn't enough to remind them of the sacrifice."

I have nothing to say in response. Turakas is one of the old guard, a veteran marine who had crushed a dozen insurrections before contact with the Traders. His armor and his scars are timelines in their own right, a story told in the music of blood and violence. He, unlike me, has spent his career on the ground, where death is personal and fighting an intimate struggle for survival. I earned his grudging respect after my ships rescued his legion from orbital bombardment, and we have developed a friendship, albeit occasionally a terse one, as we fought together in joint operations over the years.

"You're being evaluated, you know. As a potential recruit for the Arm of the Council."

I did not look up at that. "Yes. They are not being exactly subtle about it."

"A hundred ship commanders would give anything to be of such notice to the High Council as you are. I know I would have wished for it dearly when I was your age."

"It's complicated, Turakas. I'm the junior commander of a battleship strike group, not a zealous inquisitor."

"You're a fine warrior with a flawless record. That is all they care about."

"I cannot explain my own reluctance. It's simply…an instinctual disinclination." I feel his yellow eyes swivel over to me, as if the old warrior detects the lie. For I do know why I hesitate at the attention of the High Council, why I do not wish to leave the clearly defined boundaries of warfare with the Traders and enter the realm of cutthroat internal politics. If I were to be chosen to become part of the Arm of the Council, I would no longer be aiming my ship weapons towards human cruisers and frigates, but towards Vasari ones.

Turakas stares at me, his perpetual scowl deepening. He briefly looks over his shoulder and, seeing no one nearby, turns back and speaks in a flat tone, "It was simpler before."

I let out a mirthless chuckle, "I can only imagine."

We leave the rest of those thoughts unsaid. The sounds of the crowds and the rough tones of Vasari dialect fill the space, and we allow those trains of thought to quiet on their own, not pursuing the half-formed doubts for fear of where they may lead us.

* * *

It had been sudden when I received the orders to report to the _Cuvorak _for an indefinite period of time. My commandant had been furious. Our battleship strike group had just pulled back from the front lines with the Traders for repairs, and the vagueness of the order of my recall put a large question mark over our next date of deployment. As Second Commandant of the Line, my duties aboard the Kortul Devastator could be fulfilled by the other staff officers but not without some difficulty. The High Council's spontaneity was not an oddity; warriors were often recalled without prior notice to return to the center of Vasari power. Some returned to their posts after receiving advanced training and secret orders. Others were never heard of again, having been vaporized for some offence.

After traveling through phase space to the mothership orbiting the green world of Karsalis, I was ushered into classes with several other Vasari commanders of varying rank. Days of lectures and training on brand new weapons, armor, ships. I was being drowned in a deluge of top secret information. My nameless colleagues during these classes eventually received orders and left after a few days, but I remained.

My exclusive training was odd, as the knowledge I was absorbing extended far beyond any of my responsibilities if I returned to my previous post. I became privy to intelligence briefings on rumors of new TEC advancements and the locations of the growth of Trader infrastructure. Then the topic of those briefings switched to subjects within Vasari-held space. I was examined on my ability to determine weak points in our own armaments and vessels, asked for recommendations on the development of certain planets in mock tests. Countless naval simulations, fighting automated human and Vasari opponents. By the time I was ordered to attend the execution, I was certain that I was being groomed for something. Becoming the personal weapon of the High Council did not seem so unlikely.

I received the summons as I returned to my temporary living quarters aboard the mother ship several hours after my conversation with Turakas. It was brief, a single sentence which appeared on my desk telling me I was to have an audience with Councilman Narak as soon as possible.

It was a quiet journey as I passed through the layers of the ship to arrive near the central hubs. The door to the briefing center opened automatically as I approached, revealing a dimly lit room with a holographic table in the center. The display presented a three dimensional view of a Skirantra-class carrier, a purple image which slowly rotated.

The Councilman was standing behind the holograph. Narak was young relative to the other members of the Vasari council, but still many times older than I. He glanced up at my entrance and the holo cast a purple sheen over his large, deeply set yellow eyes and his grey, harsh skin. Red robes outlined in black covered his body and the ceremonial armor which he undoubtedly wore underneath. A circular emblem hung upon his chest, a symbol of power which only eight other Vasari in the entire galaxy held.

"Commandant Tu'Chur."

Straightening my hand into a blade, I saluted in a horizontal slash across my breastplate. "Councilman Narak."

Narak walked part of the way around the table, resting his four-fingered hands on the edge. "Tu'Chur, how long have you held your commission as Second aboard the Sagittra Strike Group?"

"Three cycles, my lord." I maintained a straight position, my arms clasped to my side.

"And before that?"

"I served aboard several different vessels for five cycles since reaching my majority and then served as the commanding officer of a Skarovas Enforcer for three. I was briefly Third Commandant of the Line for the Sagittra Strike Group before my direct superior was killed, whereupon I resumed duties of Second."

"Mhm." The Councilman's response tells me he already knew all of that. It was small talk, pointless words for the sake of propriety. Narak then turned fully towards me, his mouth twisted more jaggedly than it already was.

"Are we winning the war?" He asks, with a dark expression.

I was taken aback. "My lord?"

He repeats the question, with harsh emphasis, "Are we winning or losing the war against the humans?"

"I…" I hesitate. This was the last test. It must be. A final examination of my loyalty. I could not say yes, nor respond negatively. A negative answer would mean death. Thoughts were racing through my head as Narak impatiently waited for my answer. A Sentinel of the Arm of the Council is expected to have complete and full belief in the High Council. If I criticize the war effort, I criticize them. But Narak would detect the lie if I answered positively; I could not underestimate his ability to discern the truth. Lying to the face of a Councilman would be an even worse offence. There was no way out.

Unless I gave an honest answer where Narak agreed with my observations, from a military point of view. I would for sure not be chosen as part of the Arm if there was evidence of my doubts, but I would have a chance of getting out of this situation alive. Maybe I would even get to return to my old post, none worse for wear. Better than the executioner's axe.

"Many thousands of Vasari have died since the beginning of this war," I began cautiously, "and hundreds of irreplaceable ships have been lost. We continue to make advances and our edge in skill, technology, and intelligence over the Traders has ensured that the momentum of the war is still commanded by our fleets. But it is undeniable that there are splinters within our own…community that were not present twenty years ago, and more doubts and rumors about the progression of our efforts. In my own experience, we are facing greater and greater odds with the passing day. Our forces' better quality is being matched by quantity as the Traders have retooled their economy towards the war effort.

"Many admirals and warlords have retained older tactics and strategies; ones that were well suited for quelling the insurrections of the past but less so for facing an enemy that is beginning to meet us in conventional battle on more equal terms. It is understandable to see the lack of ability to adapt to differences in situational circumstance, as innovation was not a cultivated characteristic in our military. While the war still remains clearly in our favor, thousands of years of stagnant operational doctrine have taken their toll. When superior commanders are given an objective by the High Council, they rehash already used plans and send them down the chain, forcing junior officers to either adapt on their own or suffer greater casualties.

"Our people have lost track of greater threats. We began this war to consolidate resources and gather strength before continuing on our exile, but now we fight the Traders for the sake of victory. Idealism, rather than pragmatic decision. As a result, our forces have failed more than ever before. We will ultimately be victorious over the Traders. But I fear for the future beyond this conflict."

Narak was silent. I could hear my heart thudding in my chest as I finished and dread crept up my spine. Then the Councilman laughed. A quiet, subvocalized chuckle that I barely detected, but a laugh nonetheless.

"You are a bold one, I'll give you that," He says, amused.

"My lord?" My tension had not left yet, though it was beginning to be replaced with confusion.

Narak wiped the mirth from his face, "Vacek Tu'Chur, you are young. You have never known conflict beyond this one in which we are embroiled. I suppose this gives you a unique perspective. Above all, you recognize the greater threat. The malevolent force which destroyed the empire of our ancestors, so many thousands of years ago. Though no one will admit it, this war with the Traders is sucking us dry. "

He paused, walking back over the holographic table and then continuing, "Did you know one of our most secret super weapons was destroyed by TEC sabotage two months ago?"

"What?"

"We ambitiously called them 'Titans'. We had built a powerful one-way phase gate which could recall enormous Vasari ships from the vaunted Dark Fleet of old. Ships that could rampage through Trader defenses without getting a scratch. The first Titan was halfway through the gate when a force of TEC ships blew the whole blasted thing up."

I was shocked. This was a setback like none ever before; no wonder it was kept secret within the Vasari navy. It was an incredible admission of failure, one that would cause heads to roll if it became common knowledge.

Narak gestured to me, "Whatever the case, we need warriors like you. Ones which can adapt. My question when you walked in was the last part of our judgment." He points at the holographic image of the carrier. "This is our newest model of the Skirantra carrier, one which can dominate entire systems with its upgraded fighter/bomber complement. It is the flagship for the newly created Vakor Prime Advance Fleet, one which has all of our latest advancements in phase missiles and microphase jump drives."

He pressed a button on the table, and a galactic map appeared beneath the image of the Skirantra carrier. "You will posted in our southeastern quadrant," he said, pointing to a highlighted crescent area of the map, "There has been some trouble there, and no clear image on what the source of all the conflict is. You are to reassert Vasari control over this sector. I assume this post is satisfactory for you, Warlord Tu'Chur?"

_Warlord?_ I couldn't believe it. My mind was beginning to catch up to what I was seeing. I was never being evaluated as a potential recruit for the Arm of the Council in the first place. I wasn't becoming a councilman's internal weapon at all; I was getting a promotion to one of the highest classes of Vasari power. A Vasari warlord was more than another officer in the fleet—he was a regional commander nearly independent of the regular forces.

"My lord," I croaked at first before clearing my throat, "Councilman, I would be honored."

"Good. Documents containing the details of your area of command will be forwarded to you shortly. I would be lying if I said that this decision was unanimous. There are some in the Council who would prefer to see you, and your ideals of change, fail. See that you don't."

I expected as much. The splinters within the orthodoxy had reached up to the highest levels, it seemed. I nod, and saluted once more. Narak, apparently satisfied, began to exit the room.

I looked over at the holographic image once more, seeing as details of the carrier were brought up, showing all the upgrades and improvements. It would be more than sufficient.

"Narak." The councilman paused and turned, the wrinkles on his forehead raised in question. "What is the name of my flagship?"

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, in a much quieter, softened voice: "The _Vaekus_. In memory of a valiant warrior, fallen from grace." Narak then continued on his way, leaving me alone in the room.

First Admiral Vaekus. The commander who was executed this morning, by orders of the High Council.

It dawned upon me. My appointment was more than recognition of my potential. I was a political message to Narak's opposition within the Council itself. I was another wedge which was being driven between the nine Vasari who shared absolute power. It was deliberate move based in spite and now I would have to rely on Narak's faction to keep my command—and my life.

My fears were justified after all. I had entered the bloody realm of politics.

* * *

**Codex Entry**: **The Vasari 'Warlords'**

The Vasari Empire, which existed ten thousand years ago, operated on an authoritarian system with a clearly defined, single chain of bureaucracy. With its sudden decline and fall, the remaining Vasari attempted to transfer that same basic system to their exiled fleets which, albeit much smaller than the Dark Fleet during the Empire's days, were still vast and containing thousands of ships.

It became increasingly apparent over the course of their arduous millennial journey that it was largely impractical for the military authority to maintain complete control over all aspects of the fleet simply due to the size of the Vasari community and the space over which the massive fleet was spread out. 'Warlords' became the solution to this administrative issue: semi-autonomous commanders who could operate with high levels of discretion, parceling out the burden of governing and managing.

While known in human history as aggressive, independent leaders, warlords in the Vasari exiled fleets still remain firmly under the control of the Vasari High Council and there are clearly defined limits as to where warlord authority begins and ends. For example, a First Commandant—the titular commander of a strike group—would _not _be able to command a warlord's fleet, whereas a Vasari First Admiral or a Grandmaster would have clear superiority. Warlords can be somewhat equated to the nobility of medieval Europe, men who retain responsibility for their own forces and managerial duties of their region while still dependent on the favor of the central power—the High Council. This relationship has become more complicated as a warlord's command is considered separate from the regular Vasari navy, but the personnel and vessels involved are still registered underneath normal classifications albeit with extended deployment periods. In practical terms, there are usually twenty or so Vasari warlords who are personally responsible for a particular area of operation, while regular Admirals and fleets move fluidly between these regions.

Even this level of autonomy has encouraged some warlords to rebel and attempt to assert their independence. These 'insurrections' were originally rare, but have grown in number in the past hundred years. While there has never been a successful recorded insurrection in Vasari history, the High Council has put in a number of restrictions and apparatuses to monitor the intentions of the warlords in order to prevent rebellion. The most famous and notable of these organizations is the shadowy **Arm of the Council**, whose elite operatives answer directly and only to the Council itself.

* * *

A/N: The Vasari POV makes an appearance! Felt that first person lends itself well. I had a lot of fun writing this one!

Leave a review! (Which race/profession would you like to see next?)


	6. Chapter 6: The Really Really Bad Day

**-Warrant Officer Joseph Antonson-**

**-Triton System, 6.19.1346-**

"Hey Joey, where ya been? You look like shit!"

Joey growled as he stomped past the other laughing pilots. Assholes. All of them.

" 'I dropped an EMP grenade, Major. And that's why the flak guns are shut down.' Christ, I wish I had a picture of the CO's face when he heard you say that!" More laughing. That was Georg's voice. Bitch.

If Joey hadn't been dead tired from working in that shit hole of an auxiliary generator room, he would have turned right around and broken Georg's nose. But he felt like shit, was covered in shit, and above all just didn't want to give another shit about what his fellow pilots said. He kept walking and soon left the jeering voices behind.

"Shit!" Joey kicked the bulkhead for the sake of it. Cursing the Major, George, and everyone else, he went to go take a shower.

Warrant Officer Joseph Antonson was having a bad day. Well, his days were almost always bad. But this one was taking it to wholly undiscovered levels of bad day-ness. "Here, take this to the armory," said the technician, handing him a _live fucking EMP grenade _before disappearing into thin air. Not his fault that he tripped while holding it! Handling explosives smaller than a ship-to-ship missile was one hundred percent _not_ in his contract. The damage had not even been that bad—the systems rebooted within a couple of minutes. But no, Mister 'I'm a Walking Phallus' Major Ghazni had to come by right at that moment. So Joey spent three hours cleaning up all of the gunk oozing out of the auxiliary generators as punishment, a place so gross that not even Wadsworth wanted to go in there.

Worthless stupid, old cleaning bot, how dare it try to preserve itself? He felt a sudden urge to sell the bucket of bolts for scrap and use the cash to buy a bag of real coffee.

Joey finished toweling himself off and put on his gray work uniform, which signified his role as part of a Planetary Defense Force. He unconsciously fingered the wings on the shoulder before buttoning the rest of the way up and exiting to get something to drink.

His post was one of a handful of tactical defense structures orbiting the planet of Triton. Population was approximately fifteen million, with most of the people involved in agriculture and the rest in mining rare metals on the cold, but green planet. There were only two orbital hangers around the planet, with three squadrons of fighters and one of bombers between them. Although only a Warrant Officer, Joey was the pilot of a SF-62 Phoenix fighter, and he had been proud as hell when he received his wings eight months back. The Trader Emergency Coalition had decided to foot the expense of building the defenses five years ago, when there was a massive pirate flotilla threatening an adjacent star system. Since then, though, the borders had expanded and Triton was a healthy distance inside of the Eastern frontier.

This left Warrant Officer Antonson and the other seventy personnel aboard Hanger Defense Alpha-Two with absolutely nothing to do but sit, send out a flyby every week to annoy the guys manning the orbital Gauss Turrets, and collect a paycheck. There had been a little tension in the past week as there were rumors floating around of an attack from something called the 'Advent' on a few systems in their sector. High Command was keeping a tight lid on it though, so Joey didn't pay too much attention to all the baseless speculation. Besides, there was an entire fleet group nearby. If there was anything, those regulars would knock it out way before Triton ever could be threatened.

Joey filled a plastic cup with synthetic coffee. There were two technicians on the other side of the lounge, but otherwise the place was deserted.

He mused. In all honesty, this deployment was not that bad. Hell, he was born and raised on Triton itself. It could definitely be worse. He could have been posted on an expeditionary fleet, spending a couple years on a Percheron light carrier. The Fighter Corps had the highest casualty rate of combat personnel on the front lines, courtesy of the naval commanders who did not quite understand the danger of fucking Vasari flak frigates. But instead of all that, Joey was floating above his own home planet in perfect safety, with the freedom to hop on a shuttle and spend a couple days of leave with his mom and dad every few months.

And above all, he gets to fly every once in a while. Not so bad.

He was still going to punch Georg's lights out the next time they were in the gym. The bastard.

Suddenly, the intercom blasted a screech before an automated voice boomed. "ALERT. UNKNOWN FORCES DETECTED ENTERING GRAVITY WELL. ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO BATTLE STATIONS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALERT."

A red klaxon began to wail (why are klaxons always red? Joey wondered randomly), and the two technicians, after a stunned heartbeat, burst into action. Gawking for a second, the young warrant officer followed their example and began to race towards the fighter bay, dropping the coffee cup and spilling its contents all over the floor in the process.

_Shit, I really wanted that coffee too_, Joey thought as he passed other men and women who were hurrying through the hallways.

By the time he reached the locker room containing all the pilots' gear, the adrenaline was already running through his veins. Joey fumbled twice with unlocking his compartment before he got the latch to spring open. The other pilots were running in and gearing up as well and for once there were no jokes at Joey's expense. Joey quickly put on the flight suit, checking the seals at the joints. He was having trouble putting on the boots, awkwardly standing on one leg, until he tripped and fell face forward on the floor.

"Quit screwing around Joey! Get to your bird!" It was Georg, who was already in full gear.

_Shut your stupid face Georg I swear to Jesus_, Joey gritted his teeth and bit down the anger. He got back up, finished sealing on his boots and snatched his helmet before rushing through the door to get to the hanger bay.

Techs were running around, finishing up fueling and checking the armaments of the SF-62 Phoenixes. He ran over to the side of his plane, and scaled up the short ladder already hitched on the side of the open cockpit. A tech ran up and detached the ladder. Joey put his helmet on and fastened it shut as his HUD bloomed up. The clear canopy lowered and sealed. He then looked over his displays, waiting for the green light to blink. A few seconds passed and then the light came on, signifying that everything was set and all pilots in his squadron were ready to go. He pressed a few buttons, allowing the plane to inch forward onto an elevator which would take him to the isolated launch bays.

The voice of his squadron leader, Captain Wells, came over the channel, "Listen up boys, sensors are telling us a large group of warships just phased in, and they sure as hell aren't the TEC. The birds at Alpha-One have already launched—follow my lead and we'll deal with this just like we would with a pirate raid. Time to show these guys what we trained for."

By this time, Joey's plane was set in place in the launch bay. Captain Wells' spoke once more.

"Turk Squadron, begin engines."Joey powered up the mini reactor within the fighter, feeling as the plane began to hum all around him. His HUD showed all systems were running smoothly, though the body monitors displayed that his heartbeat was above normal. He waited, tensely, for the order to launch, trying to breathe in and out to calm the nerves.

"Launch!" With the command, Joey punched in, causing the fighter to accelerate forward and zoom out of the launch bay. The other five SF-62s of Turk Squadron exited their bays at the same time, as their navigation displays began to show a three dimensional radar view of the surrounding system.

Captain Wells spoke up, "Stay within range of the Gauss Turrets. Everyone, follow me and watch your fuel states."

The TEC fighters fell into formation, the blue exhaust from their engines painting bright streaks through the starry sky.

The tracking systems showed the green dots up ahead of the fighter squadron from the other hangar several kilometers in front of them. Blue blocky shapes were scattered around them, showing the locations of the orbital Gauss Guns.

Beyond that, it was a red wave. There were so many red dots of the unknown forces that it was like a tide was surging forward at them.

"Holy shit," Joey breathed, and his mind raced back to some of the rumors going around about attacks on the Eastern sector. A previously unknown enemy. _The Advent_.

This day was _not _going well. Not fucking well at all.

* * *

The Gauss turrets began to blast their coil guns at the enemy ships as the sleek vessels passed within range. Long range direct energy weapons equipped on the Advent warships responded in kind. Behind the screen of Disciple frigates, Aeria Drone Hosts disgorged their squadrons. The unmanned locusts swept forward, controlled by powerful Psintegrates determined to batter aside the outnumbered TEC fighters and bombers.

The first six Phoenixes opened fire with their autocannons as the cone-like enemy fighters met them head on. A wall of lasers crashed over the hapless squadron, draining their shields. The TEC squadrons, completely unaware that their opponents were drones, split up into pairs as the fight degenerated into a series of desperate dogfights. All the while, the Advent ships moved closer and fired upon the Gauss guns, attempting to destroy the orbital structures. Behind them, more of Advent vessels phased in and accelerated towards Triton's swamped defenders.

* * *

"Joey, where are you?"

"I'm here, Vince!" Joey pulled up alongside his lead man. The bomber squadron had already been wiped out, the heavy missile crafts torn to pieces by the enemy's energy weapons. The ammunition for Joey's cannon was running low and his shields were barely holding. His fuel was dropping at an alarming rate, as well.

"Let's lead them back to the Hanger, those flak guns will tear these bastards apart. Stay on my tail!" Vince pulled off to the side and Joey followed.

Lasers began to blast around them, lethal beams traveling at the speed of light.

Warrant Officer Joey Antonson jerked his Phoenix from side to side, evading his pursuers and desperately urging his plane to go faster.

Vince's strained voice came over the radio. "On my mark, break!"

Just as Joey registered the command, he saw a deadly lance of light burst to his left and pierce his lead man's fighter. It instantly exploded and the shockwave rocked Joey as he pulled to the side in a sharp dive.

"Damn it!" He yelled before pulling back up and heading towards the hanger from below.

He opened a channel, "Hanger Alpha-Two, this is Turk-Three, I've got about six enemy fighters trailing behind me and I'm headed right for you at a bearing forty-two Yankee, twenty-eight Zulu. Watch your flak fire!"

The comm operator on the hanger responded promptly, "Roger that Turk-Three, we are engaging as soon as they pass within range. Alpha-Two out."

Joey's Phoenix went into a steep climb, racing towards the underside of the hanger. The six enemy fighters followed behind, firing at him. He altered his angle and then zoomed up and over Hanger Defense Alpha-Two. The Advent behind him were caught in the rapid blasts of flak from the hanger's guns, swatting the sleek fighters from the sky as their armor was shredded.

Registering all this on the display, the warrant officer pulled the fighter up into a loop and then dived at one Advent bird which had escaped the hanger's onslaught. Joey squeezed the trigger, letting loose two hundred autocannon rounds into the enemy plane. The hostile fighter quickly lost control and rolled over before disintegrating.

Before he could celebrate, heavy energy beams fired from approaching squadrons of Advent bombers and slashed deep into the hanger. Nothing happened for a moment, but then heat began to escape from the inflicted wounds and Hanger Alpha-Two violently exploded, sending debris flying out in all directions. The warrant officer cursed and dodged the murderous debris. A piece of the metal structure glanced off the side of the fighter, his shields thankfully absorbing the blow but draining to zero as a result of the strain.

The Advent warships were mopping up the last Gauss Turrets and several elements were sweeping forward to the planet itself. A quick look at Joey's display showed that all other five Phoenixes in his squadron were gone. He flicked through the different channels, trying to see if there was anyone else still up and running but receiving only static in return.

He was the last one left.

Joey gritted his teeth and then punched forward, heading towards the only place that he could go: Triton. His fuel was running dangerously low and he had only enough ammo for a single five second burst. But the SF-62 Phoenix was rated for atmospheric entry and Joey could risk it by trying to land somewhere on the ground

"Come on! Come on, damn it! Shit!" He cursed and began to take evasive maneuvers as enemy weapons targeted him once more. The planet grew larger and larger as he got closer. He could see the continents with swirling clouds above them, interspersed with wide, blue oceans.

There were two Advent fighters on his tail, their lasers lancing out on either side of his now shield-less bird. As they began to enter the outer atmosphere, the Joey yanked his fighter upwards, letting the two enemies flash forward beneath him before he dived back down, now in the hunter's spot. The silver and white colored fighter was glinting in the sunlight as he opened fire, holding down on the trigger until the barrels clicked dry. The autocannon rounds gouged holes in the exhaust pipes of the Advent fighter, which spiraled out of control. The other one, however, rolled in a crushing spin to the side—a move which would crush Joey's bones if he tried it—and reasserted itself in a position to open fire.

He was already pulling to the side when the lasers caught the underside of his right wing. The whole craft shuddered as he began to lose control. They were in the clouds now and he lost visual of his white-painted opponent. His HUD glared an angry red as his pulse rate spiked.

Smoke was trailing from the wounded wing as Warrant Officer Antonson kept a tight grip on the controls. The fighter burst through the clouds, revealing the terrain of Triton below. He was somewhere over the southern continent and he spotted a city several hundred kilometers north, a tell-tale grey smudge on an otherwise green plain. The Phoenix was getting harder to control with every passing second as he tried to direct the flailing craft into a shallower descent.

They were about four kilometers off the ground when the right wing burst into flames. Joey yelled a hasty "Shit!" before ripping the ejection handle. He was launched out of the dying Phoenix right before the whole fighter was engulfed by the fire. Now in free-fall, he watched as his faithful bird spiraled downwards and exploded as it was dashed across Triton's surface.

At the right altitude, Joey pulled his chute. He was floating down to the ground and tried to angle himself to land out in the open, away from a large clump of trees. Finally, his feet touched down and he rolled with the landing.

Trying to pull himself free of the chute while in his bulky flight suit, he succeeded in tripping himself and getting even more entangled. Frustrated, Joey quit struggling and sat up with the chute wrapped around him. Taking off his helmet, he took a look around. He could see the burning wreck of his plane, the column of smoke and fire rising high up in the sky. There were some buildings in the distance to the east, clustered at the bottom of a small plateau.

The young warrant officer then let out a shaky breath and looked down. His hands were shaking and his heart was still beating at a mile a minute. He felt the urge to puke.

"Shit."

They're all gone. They're dead. Major Ghazni, Captain Wells, Vince, Georg. The names went through his rattled brain. He did not even register the fact that he had been cursing their very existence only an hour ago aboard the hanger. An overwhelming feeling of hopelessness surged forward and overcame him.

Joey put his hands over his face, letting the nerves flood through his system. He breathed in desperate gasps of air, cradling his head, still tangled up in the material of the parachute. This was defeat. They had lost. And Triton lay helpless at the feet of its conqueror.

* * *

**Codex Entry: SF-62 Phoenix Multirole Single-Seat Combat Fighter**

At the time of the entrance of the Advent into the war, the SF-62 'Phoenix' was the standard fighter plane of the TEC Military. While some veteran squadrons continued to operate modified versions of older models, the SF-62 was the most produced and used craft. For nearly ten years, its versatility and combat effectiveness combined with a relatively cheap production cost made the Phoenix a trademark symbol of the TEC Navy itself.

The Trade Order began creating better models of small fighter/bomber craft with the onset of war, and early TEC fighters reflected the 'trial-and-error' approach to developing sophisticated upgrades. The Phoenix was a far cry from those earlier models. Outfitted with Titano-ferric alloy plating, a reinforced structure for extra durability and Type 3 Shield Arrays, the Phoenix was estimated to have nearly three times the survivability of its predecessor, the SF-47 Beagle. Armed with dual autocannons on each wing, the SF-62 was intended to be a response to Vasari bombers and a deterrent for Vasari fighters. Its ability to carry different armaments, however, showed that it could be used in a variety of different roles, from close air support on the ground to directly harassing enemy frigates in deep space. Most often operating in conjunction with JL-5 Heavy Bombers, Phoenix squadrons made a definite impact in blunting Vasari assaults and, later, in battling the Advent.

Particularly while attached to capital ship carriers or large strike groups on the front lines, fighter pilots suffered dearly in casualties as the SF-62 was still acutely vulnerable to heavier weapons. Despite the high casualty rate (the 23rd Expeditionary Fleet reported 300% casualties in its fighter complement over the course of two years) the TEC Fighter Corps never suffered from a lack of incoming recruits and morale generally remained high. Many fighter pilots continued to adore and use the Phoenix even when more advanced aircraft became available as time went on.

* * *

A/N: You'll be seeing some previous perspectives being revisited (eventually).

My writing speed will most likely slow down dramatically over the next couple of months (courtesy of IB Exams). Physics formulas have crowding out any space for inspiration in my brain.

Enjoy and leave a review!


	7. Chapter 7: The Politician

-**Undersecretary Derryk Hantar-**

**-Earth, 7.09.1346-**

"It has been three weeks since Triton has fallen, and what do we see in response? Nothing! How long must we wait until another world falls? Do we patiently sit and twiddle our thumbs while Secretary-General Kincaid allows the enemy to advance?"

The man was pacing now, fixating the audience's attention on him as he dominated the parliamentary floor.

"Do we accept a leader who dismisses those lost underneath the Advent's tyrannical thumb as 'acceptable casualties'? Do we allow this war to come to engulf Nova Iberia, Murdoch, or even Galanthus? Can we permit men, women, and children of the Trader Emergency Coalition to suffer while we stay in comfort?"

The murmurs of those attending began to grow in volume as the speaker's voice continued his passionate tirade.

"There can be no compromise or appeasement with the foes that we face. I am morally compelled to reject Secretary Kincaid's policy of containment! He allows the enemy to spread unchecked in our Eastern territories, justifying his actions through the so-called 'security of strategic points'. I cannot—_will not_ accept this! The Advent, the Vasari—any and all alien races in the galaxy deserve no less than swift, decisive justice!"

The applause filled up to the ceiling of the domed chamber. Men and women in pressed suits rose to their feet, shouting their raucous approval.

Seated on an upper balcony, Derryk Hantar clapped politely, the frown on his face not lifting. After half a minute, he discreetly stood and headed out, making his way through the applauding representatives, leaving the assembly to the hallways outside.

He had made his way to the descending stairs when he heard his name.

"Hantar!"

"Afternoon, Kuan." Hantar waited until the shorter man caught up and joined him as they walked down the stairs together.

"Vedalt certainly was animated today," Kuan remarked.

"It'll look good for the broadcasts. It's a powerful image to have dozens of planetary representatives giving him a standing ovation."

"Not everyone was as welcome to his message. I don't think I've seen the deputies from the Belsian Strip look more disgruntled than today. You could practically connect the scowls on their faces into one big line."

The two men reached the atrium, walking over the symbol of the Trader Emergency Coalition: a V slashed over a set of three arrows.

"Anyone with a brain can understand why Secretary-General Kincaid is not launching a counteroffensive against the Advent. Fighting every battle would be suicide, considering how few fleets there are in the Eastern sectors right now. Kincaid knows it. Navy Command knows it. Hell, even Vedalt _himself_ knows it."

"It's an opportunity for political gain, Hantar," Kuan said, "Enough of the assembly respects Kincaid that no one will try to get him replaced—and the Secretary's executive powers are more than enough to prevent a mutiny. Vedalt and the Nationalists are just trying to sway public perception."

Exiting through the glass doors, Hantar and Kuan paused for a moment at the marble steps. Kol's Plaza, spotless as always, lay in front of them as a warm, sunny Earth sky spread out above.

"Let's just hope that this trend reverses at the news of a victory."

"We would need a _decisive_ one to turn public support around," said Hantar with an emphatic gesture, "The doomsayers are already gathering."

Kuan sighed. "Have I ever mentioned how much I hate politics?"

"That you have. More than once."

"My father always said he was disappointed in me for not joining the navy like the rest of my brothers. I was the rebellious one that delved into the dubious subject of policy-making."

"Next time he does, mention the difference between _strategy _and _grand strategy_. That might get him off your back."

"I'll do exactly that." Kuan began to walk off but turned around after a few steps, "Hantar, I can assure you that myself and the Centrists fully support Kincaid, as we always have. But let him know that nobody can swallow sacrifice without tangible success for very long."

"I'll drop a notice to him—perhaps remind him of the lesson from Fabius. Everyone knows that fighting a war without losing a battle is not the same as winning one."

They parted ways.

.

* * *

.

Hantar was seated in the backseat of his aircar when a message appeared on his holo.

He glanced at it, reading it twice to memorize the code and then deleted it from his inbox. Hantar dialed several commands to his pilot seated in the front, and then sat back as the aircar began to change direction.

They flew along the lanes, passing among elegant skyscrapers which towered above crowded streets below.

Soon their vehicle approached a break in the endless rows of superstructures as a clearing came into view. In the center was a blocky, utilitarian building that sharply contrasted with the lithe civilian high-rises. Its massive walls were painted a matte gray which seemed to absorb the light from the setting sun.

The aircar continued on its way and a gruff voice came over the channels.

"This is a restricted area and property of the TEC Military. Leave this airspace immediately."

Hantar keyed in, "I am Undersecretary Derryk Hantar, requesting permission to land. Sending in invitation code now."

After several seconds the voice responded, with a lighter tone this time, "Request granted. Proceed to Landing Pad Three. Have a nice day, Mister Hantar."

The aircar descended into the shadow of the building, eventually reaching a platform which jutted out of the side. When Hantar exited the car, a man in uniform holding a tablet at his side was waiting for him.

"Mister Hantar? If you would follow me, please." Hantar nodded and fell into step behind the military officer.

Steel doors slid open as the pair walked through. Two guards in black body armor did not stop them, only nodding their heads respectfully in Hantar's direction. This was the first time that Hantar was not required to go through the security scanners, most likely because of the high clearance code he had submitted earlier. Entering the building proper, the hallways and offices were bustling with military and civilian personnel. He caught bits and pieces of conversations as he and his silent guide passed through a number of turns and junctures. After a short upwards elevator ride, the officer led Hantar into a briefing room where several people sat around a long table.

Hantar immediately recognized the man seated at the front of the table.

"Secretary-General Kincaid, I am here as requested."

"Afternoon Hantar, glad to see you could make it on such short notice," said the aged secretary-general, with warmth in his tone uncommon for most people in positions of such high responsibility. The premature graying in his hair betrayed the severe stress which came with the position of supreme leadership, as did the harsh wrinkles which marred an otherwise jovial face.

Hantar let his eyes roam over the other men and women present, recognizing almost all of them. This group had met often. They were, effectively, the source of Kincaid's policy-making; a "brain trust" of sorts. On occasion, the whole team was brought together by Kincaid in order to paint a clear picture of the entire war -from economic trends to military were two admirals seated at the right of Kincaid; one of whom Hantar recognized as Admiral Griffith, director of Special Naval Operations. The second high-ranking man was an unknown.

Hantar seated himself, as Kincaid began to speak once more.

"This meeting was called because I believed it to be necessary to inform the present parties of the complete scope of the situation. I also asked for us to meet in person due to all the recent concern about the breaches within TEC cybersecurity. Huyhn, would you like to begin?"

The cybersecurity advisor, Huyhn, spoke, "Overall, we have complete confidence that the cybersecurity of Naval Command or important civilian assets have not been breached, with the issues solely confined to the civilian companies operating near the Taurus sector. There is evidence that malicious AI programs, exhibiting similar characteristics seen by the Vasari in the past, were able to rampage through TEC systems until NavIntel shut them down."

"No real harm done, then," Kincaid turned to another aide, "What about the production capabilities of the planets in the Sigma Eta Quadrant?"

"Still underway. Sigma Eta was only recently recaptured from the Vasari, and there is a lot of damage to make up. There are very few corporations which are willing to invest on those worlds, despite the profit. Lots of fear whether or not the TEC will be able to hold onto them for long," said the economics advisor.

"If I may," interrupted Admiral Griffith, "the Navy will have very little reason to expend valuable resources on protecting underdeveloped systems. Our front line is stretched thin, considering how many forces that need to be left in systems further behind. Until at least some construction beings on trade routes and industrial production, Naval Command will undoubtedly commit protection details elsewhere."

"It's more than a matter of simple protection," said Hantar. He felt the attention of the room swivel onto him. "The Vasari have done it in the past—allowing us to rebuild and reestablish a base before swooping down and destroying our assets again. If we want to retool Sigma Eta into providing resources for the war effort, there is going to have to be a concerted effort to eliminate Vasari striking capability in the region."

"Our navy doesn't have enough strength to do such a long ranging campaign, especially not with the threat of the Advent," said the unknown, second military man. "I believe Admiral MacNeal, in command at Sigma Eta, was peeling off the 130th Frontier Fleet to reinforce the Eastern sectors. We have to deal with the more pressing threat."

"I was not dismissing the threat of the Advent," said Hantar, "merely stating what would have to be done if we are going to bring up resource production," he cleared his throat, "I don't believe we have met, Mister…?"

"Caradin. Rear Admiral Caradin."

Realization dawned on Hantar. "You are in command of the 154th Flotilla, under command of Admiral Kosovich in the East, correct?"

"I am," said Kincaid. "The 154th is in dock for repairs, so I was ordered to report to Earth to assist the Naval Admiralty Staff for the time being."

Left unsaid was the fact that the 154th had suffered so many casualties in the early days against the Advent that it was being combined with another, similarly decimated fleet. Hantar knew few details about it, only that Caradin's actions had prevented the entire Eastern fleet group form being slaughtered.

"Sigma Eta will have to be left until the Advent advance is stalled," stated Secretary-General Kincaid. "Which leads me to the next point I wished to touch upon. Admiral Caradin, what is the status of the Fourth Fleet Group?"

"Pretty bad," said Caradin grimly. "Most of the fleets are still intact, but that's only because Kosovich has been avoiding direct battle—in accordance with Command's directives. We're facing an enemy with superior technology and numbers. With the arrival of the battleships in the 8th Reserve Fleet from Nova Iberia, we'll have a better chance of winning a pitched battle. Luckily, we have been able to deflect an offensive in recent weeks which was aiming at striking against another planet. I believe Kosovich understood the political defeat in allowing Triton to be occupied without contest."

Kincaid nodded, before leaning towards him. "What was all this about Naval Intelligence's report on evidence of Advent telepathy?"

"That…is more of an uncertainty. Entirely conjecture. We haven't yet been able to capture an Advent crew alive considering that we cannot afford the risks currently." Caradin adjusted his collar, "But there is evidence…entirely isolated incidences of our own vessels being forcefully taken control of...without physical intervention. There aren't enough NavIntel assets in the East to truly investigate all the rumors, but we're doing our best to be cautious."

"Too many blasted rumors these days," Griffith grimaced, "we're fighting in the dark right now."

"Well, the good news is that they die just like us. Their shields are not impenetrable, just significantly more powerful," said Caradin.

Kincaid let the room stew on the unwelcome pieces of news before continuing. "Hantar how was the Parliamentary session? I have not yet read the report that you sent earlier."

"The Nationalists are going full swing," said Hantar. "It seems that Vedalt is trying to stir up enough discontent to present of a vote of no confidence. He knows it will fail, as their coalition is a clear minority. But for political purposes, it secures his leadership within his own party.

"Vedalt's message is still very attractive. His speech today, a recording of which I will include in a full report, shows that the idea of diplomacy is an unpopular one. But what is truly disturbing was his audacity in demanding a change in military policy. No one of the opposition has challenged that before. The mere fact that not _everyone _was outraged by his challenge shows that they believe the situation is desperate enough."

The intelligence expert spoke up, "There is also some evidence of any increase in independent literature criticizing high level decisions. There have been a few protests, allegedly orchestrated by the Nationalists, on the Belt Worlds, as well."

"You should just shut them down," said Admiral Griffith to Kincaid. "I really don't see why you're willingly letting go of so much control. The Coalition is polarized enough as it is, we don't need the opposition to have the freedom to act on their rhetoric."

The Secretary-General looked contemplative for a moment. Hantar was surprised that Griffith was not immediately chastised for his tone, but perhaps it had struck a chord with Kincaid's own doubts.

Kincaid spoke, in a slow, quieter voice, "I believe this conflict with the Vasari—and now with the Advent—is just as much a physical contest of survival as it is an ideological one. My predecessors were fine with disregarding human rights statutes that had been decided upon hundreds of years ago for the sake of consolidating power for the war effort. When the political systems of opposing sides begin to look very similar, there is the question of who truly deserves to win? I know that the Trade Order, the TEC, owns the moral high ground because we have _always _owned it, despite the transgressions of the past decades. The past six years of my office have been spent in ensuring that the authoritarian War Powers of the Secretary-General are not abused needlessly." He paused for a moment, clearing his throat before continuing again. "I may not agree with the message of the Nationalists or Vedalt. I also do not wish to shut down their ability to speak their mind. I, and the military, are not faultless, as it were. We need to have some critics."

The room was silent for a moment. Hantar himself felt somewhat sobered. Having enjoyed so much freedom of action within the upper levels of TEC leadership had obscured the underlying rule of law that the Coalition supposedly protected. The oath that every government worker or military personnel swore their first day.

"Now," said Kincaid in a different tone, "Griffith, could you explain the current effects of the recent engine prototypes in live operations? Preliminary thoughts and first impressions, please, you can leave the exact details for the full report."

The meeting continued long into the night.

* * *

**Codex Entry: The Science of 'Air Cars' **

Most air cars operate on internal nuclear fusion generators. The complexity of the engine and mechanisms involved once led billionaire Daveth Corsev to state, "I don't give a damn about how it works, so long as it makes a profit." (This was after the acquisition of primary air car manufacturer Toyota into Corsev Industries). Nevertheless, the concept of the air car's fusion engine is simple: the energy given off by a chemical combination of Helium and Hydrogen is converted into electricity, powering internal electromagnetic fields which produce an opposing force strong enough to counteract the force of gravity.

Sensors within the air car are able to detect and determine the strength and polarity of a natural planetary body's magnetic field. This operates in conjunction with the vehicle's internal magnetized mechanism which generates a magnetic field to oppose the detected field. The generated magnetism is produced through running current through an intricate set of wires within the air car's engine about the size of a penny. Depending on which wires are chosen and the direction in which the electric current is run, the generated magnetic field can be deployed in the required area and direction to guide the vehicle. This extremely sophisticated operation is enough to act as a balancing force which prevents the air car from either crashing into the ground or being repelled irretrievably into the atmosphere.

Once hovering and counteracting the attractive force of gravity, the generated magnetic field is manipulated to move the air car itself. Hot air thrusters are present for maneuvering purposes, and not for the propelling the main body of the air car.

This design is so expensive that only the extremely wealthy and high government officials use air cars for daily use; and the electromagnetic mechanisms themselves are not even a fraction of the cost of the fusion generator as the source of electrical energy. Less expensive and more dangerous hover craft options do exist, but are often banned from being used within city limits for aesthetic and environmental purposes (see SpaceBuzzFeed's **Top 15 Ways to Die on an Atomic Age Helicopter **for more).

* * *

A/N: I wrote this in the week before my MUN conference. There will be science fiction, I promise. Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8: The Psintegrat

-**Zia, Ordinate of the Battle Psintegrat-**

**-System "V1986", 7.20.1346-**

This was surprising.

Zia pushed outwards with her consciousness, extorting the drone to sweep out over the expanse of space. She was hoping to catch some sort of sign of exhaust trails, or energy residue from the Trader vessels.

There was none. It was if the enemy ships they had tracked to this system had simply…disappeared.

"Zia, anything?" asked the captain.

"Nothing at all. Perhaps we can verify with the scanners on the Seekers?"

The captain nodded and turned towards her console, "They might have something. But it seems as if everyone's as confused as we are."

Zia directed the drone to return to formation before ending the draining psychic link. She let out a short breath as she shut off the console and sat back in her chair.

She was a Psintegrat on an Aeria Drone Host, one of the many gifted Advent onboard who were responsible for controlling the swarms of fighters and bombers. Every long range expeditionary armada had several Aerias in their complement besides the masses of direct-combat frigates and cruisers. Zia hadn't seen much action in the months since the invasion had begun. Sister Gaellia, their fleet commander, had only just received affirmation to offensively pursue the elusive Trader forces.

They had been traipsing across Trader space for five weeks, trying to catch the enemy fleet in a decisive battle. It was tiring, unfulfilling work. Occasionally an Illuminator frigate would blast a scout vessel, but for the most part attempting to _search for and destroy _the TEC fleets was akin to sifting through the sand of an enormous lake. The decisive victory which the Coalescents so desired—one which could eliminate TEC projection power—was further and further away with every empty star system that the Advent jumped into.

Zia was dying to see her skills validated. To actually be able to taste the fruits of the long years of training that she had endured to reach this honored point in the Advent Forces. She was not, by any means, a crusading zealot wishing to spread the Unity like some of her colleagues, but she did have a sense of self-importance. Slogging around a series of nameless stars wasn't doing much for that individualistic ego.

"Looks like all the Seeker vessels are reading zeroes. Sister Gaellia is ordering the scryers to attempt to find a trail. Looks like the Traders managed to get away this time," said the captain, speaking to the crew members of the command center.

_For the twentieth time_, added Zia. A few assenting grumbles from her fellow Psintegrats greeted her across the psi link. Nobody enjoyed the physical strain of remotely controlling the drones without getting anything in return.

Zia did not leave her chair, even as many of the other Advent began to trickle back to their quarters.

She started breathing exercises, inhaling in particular patterns to ease the incoming headache. It was if she could control the flow of energy, traveling along connection from her feet, to her belly, and then dissipated in soothing flickers over the brain. Breathe in. And out.

Her mind did not ache as much now. All Battle Psintegrat pushed their minds to the limits of psionic power, but especially so the controllers of the drones. Maintaining the focus on the small fighters while maneuvering them around space was an intensely draining effort, and the technique would be impractical for actual battle if not for the amps embedded in her nervous system and an assisting computerized targeting console. Few could control an entire squadron of strike craft through the chaos of a dogfight and Zia was proud to count herself as one of those few. The slightest disruption and the resonant wavelengths holding up the telekinetic link could falter. It was a skill that took years to master.

Glancing around the operations center, Zia started to wonder how everyone was doing back home. Would her sisters still be attending lectures and their studies, or would they be sucked into the war effort as well? Sylvani, undoubtedly, was probably still railing about the deficiencies within the Advent's religious codes. Zia tried to imagine her rebellious friend in uniform and a part of a naval crew. She smirked at the thought; Sylvani would pull out her psionic amps rather than join the establishment. The Unity, in the end, truly was not an easy fit for everyone.

Suddenly, a wave of panic washed over her. It was if a thousand Advent had all begun to radiate surprise and fear at once. A split second before the captain frantically called for battle stations, Zia saw the source of the confusion through the mental links now broadcasting throughout the armada.

The enemy fleet!

Multiple squadrons of TEC frigates had phased in and began to engage the forward elements of the Advent forces. Missiles and lasers lashed out through space, painting deadly patterns which crashed against glowing shields.

Zia quickly refocused her mind, activating the console and assisting computer systems while reaching out towards her squadron of drone fighters floating in space. She established the link and gathered them together as she began to analyze the surrounding friendly and hostile forces.

Innately in tune with the mental commands of her captain and the thoughts of the Psintegrat on the Aeria Host, Zia pushed her drones to accelerate forward and engage the TEC strike craft now swarming over the Advent vessels. Her teeth clenched as she directed the drones to open fire and engage in complex turns and rolls.

The TEC force was relatively small, and the Advent ships began to attack with renewed fervor once they realized they held superior firepower. A Revelation battlecruiser led the charge forward, striking multiple Trader frigates at the same time with its powerful energy weapons. The strong, sub harmonic mental pulses of the fleet commander's primary orders blanketed across the minds of the Advent crews, encouraging them to advance and destroy.

Then another group of human ships phase jumped in, striking towards the flank of the Advent fleet. A Kol Battleship led the ambushing Trader force, its Gauss railgun lancing out alongside a horde of missiles. The Advent had been led into a trap.

Zia's focus was disrupted when a missile struck the Aeria's shields. It had not penetrated, but had caused the drone host to roll slightly to the side. In the few seconds it took for Zia to reform the link with her fighter squadron, two of the drones had already been destroyed.

Noticing her captain's will, Zia redirected the remaining drones back to protect the Aeria. She scattered them out of formation as streams of flak and autocannon fire peppered through the space, sending each of the drone fighters to engage incoming TEC bombers one on one. Zia felt a small spark of elation when one of the drones blasted away a Trader strike craft, eliminating the hostile presence from the plane of space.

She could feel the panic growing in the other Psintegrats though. The enemy battleship had targeted a nearby cruiser and punctured the hull with a single burst of its railgun, snuffing out several hundred lives in the blink of an eye.

Elsewhere, the Advent ships were being hemmed in as the TEC pincers moved in further. Chaotic orders began to radiate from Sister Gaellia's command ship as the Advent capital ships came under heavy fire, increasing the confusion amongst the shattered Advent ranks.

_We can't do this! _The errant hysteric thought of one of the Psintegrat was joined in by others as the dismay grew. The drones were being swatted out of the air by furious flak fire and an unrelenting wave of TEC fighters. Some of the Advent frigates broke away and began to flee, aiming to reach the edge of the star system. The trickle turned into a flood as the surviving Advent vessels attempted to retreat away from the closing jaws of the TEC trap.

Zia had control over only three drones when the Aeria's shields failed. The sleek metal hull of the ship began to take direct hits from homing missiles, breaking Zia's concentration as she tried and failed to quell the growing anxiety within her.

Desperate, she reached out with her consciousness at the hostile ships closing in on them. She had to something or else the Aeria was going to be destroyed very, very soon. Zia quickly analyzed the makeup of the metals of the various frigates and cruisers advancing on them, and honed in one Trader frigate whose materials would be slightly easier to manipulate.

She willed her psionics, allowing the power to grow within the criss-crossing lines of synthetic technology under her skin. Zia closed her eyes tightly as she began to target the frigate, attempting to resonate the frequencies of her PsiTech with the matter-wavelengths of the TEC metals. Her amps began to hum and buzz, increasing the strain which stretched from her spinal cord to her prefrontal cortex. She reached out with her telekinetic powers, tracing and draping the intangible energy over the surface of the Trader frigate. The pain was becoming unbearable and her fingers were shaking as she continued to direct her PsiTech to the limit. Then, wrenching her hands together, Zia _pulled, _sinking the tendrils of psionic power into the frigate's hull.

The frigate groaned as it began to be ripped apart. Zia continued to pull, even as her mind screamed under the intense amount of pressure. Then, she seemed to penetrate through some sort of barrier as her powers managed to break through the hull's alloys and the enemy frigate was torn in two. Hissing oxygen vented out for a second before the Trader ship exploded.

Zia immediately ended the psionic link, gasping as the pressure dissipated. Her body was tingling with exhaustion and just from the feeling in her right arm Zia knew the PsiTech implanted there had been fried. She could not clearly hear the voices of her fellow crewmates, as if her whole brain was being muddled.

The whole Aeria Drone Host shifted and stalled as an EMP pulse struck it, immediately shutting down its engines. The Psintegrates on board cried out in alarm as they felt the last of their psionic links evaporate with the electromagnetic wave which swept over the ship.

Zia barely registered this. She slumped over and darkness took her.

* * *

A/N: Special thanks to **Foacir **for the review! You gave me the motivation to keep writing and publish another chapter.

This is one is pretty short-upcoming IB Exams are cutting in on my free time to write. Whenever I open up the Word document, all I see are historical dates and kinematic formulas, so I really have to wrestle with it to actually get something creative out.

Thank you to everyone still reading!


	9. Chapter 9: The Resistance

**-Joey Antonson-**

** -Planet of Triton, 12.30.1346- **

Joey hated the helmets that the Advent troopers wore. Their faces were entirely covered by that white, expressionless mask. The two black slits for their eyes gave the unnerving impression that they were always looking directly at you, as if with one glance they could read your innermost thoughts and see exactly who and what you are.

Joey pulled his hood closer over his face, looking downwards as he walked past the two Advent soldiers standing on the street corner and trying to blend into the crowd. It was a busy hour at the market place and the best time for Joey to move around the city. The Advent occupiers had proven to have an uncanny ability in tracking down Resistance members when there were few people active in the city. Denzel had explained why to him: the Advent's psionic powers worked on a basis of "feeling" out the planes of spacetime, where separate consciousnesses could be identified upon that plane. It was far harder for a Resistance sympathizer to be found if there were more people around-when there were so many more diverging points in spacetime, the Advent would have a much more difficult time of pinpointing a singular entity.

It barely made sense to Joey, but he was not going to question it. He had seen public executions before. The Resistance had enough problems already besides having to worry about some Advent Psintegrat reading their mind.

Joey passed by another patrol, the Advent troopers not paying him any mind. Joey then slipped out of the flow of the crowd before taking a side alley away from the main boulevard. Walking through the filth-ridden alley, Joey took several turns as he moved through the jumbled mess of buildings. There were dozens of people out and about: children in ragged clothes running around, a couple overworked mothers hanging up laundry, more than a few thugs loitering and smoking in twisted alleys. It was one of many ghettos in the capital, and one of the areas where the Advent presence was least. Joey took another turn, the noises of the ghetto quieting behind him as he made his way down another narrow street. Eventually he came to a slightly rusted metal door, obscured from view by a dumpster. He glanced over his shoulder out of reflex, before knocking on the door.

Three light knocks, pause, one knock, pause, three more light ones. It was a signal that he was not being tracked.

After a moment, the door opened outwards and Joey quickly entered, shutting it behind him.

"Thanks Hans," said Joey.

Hans, the door guard, grunted as he reset the locking mechanisms on the door. "Rachel and the others are already here. You're the only one they're waiting on."

Joey nodded. He passed through the first few rooms of the building, mumbling a greeting to the two Resistance members in the kitchen. His footsteps were softened by rugs and carpets that had been set out over the concrete floor as he made his way to the meeting room.

The decrepit building that housed this Resistance cell was one of the many constructions that came about during the early years of colonization, before the planetary government began to implement more detailed urbanization plans. These ghettos which speckled the city had been trouble spots for crime over the years as gangs had made their nests in the labyrinthine building complexes. There had always been talk from Triton's government of bulldozing over the ghettos to improve the image of Triton's urban population. It was ironic that now, after the Advent had conquered the planet, these were the areas safest for the scattered Resistance to hide.

Joey had been lucky. Once a fighter pilot in Triton's planetary defense force, he had managed to link with a group of local militia after crash landing. At some point in the chaotic weeks that followed, Joey met Rachel and Denzel, who had begun organizing a resistance movement the day that the Advent had begun occupying the planet. They took refuge in the urban sprawl of Triton's capital, and for the past six months had spent their time by creating a complex network of cells, informants, and spies that now spread across the planet. The Advent had superior technology and their psionic powers, but only were spending a token effort in trying to spread belief and support of the Unity's culture among the population. As a result, unrest was spreading, especially in city centers. The Resistance's main effort was in spreading and harnessing that unrest.

Joey opened the door to the meeting room. Denzel was seated at the head of the table, thin wire glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Adrian, Erica, Marc, Gustav, Janila—Joey ran his eyes over the people present in the room. It seemed as if every high-ranking member of the Resistance in the capital were here. Leaning against the wall at the far side of the room, Rachel, leather-clad arms crossed, nodded subtly at Joey's entrance.

Marc began, "You're pretty late, Joey. What was the hold-up?"

"There was a Psintegrat checking people at the metro station, so I decided to play it safe and hoof it on foot."

"Pretty risky," said Marc with a tone of disdain, "the patrols could have picked you up."

Joey shrugged, "I'd rather take that risk than go through a checkpoint manned by a Psintegrat." _You arrogant ass_. Joey sighed inwardly. Some things never change.

"Whatever the case," interrupted Denzel, "we're all here now. Now if you two are quite finished, it's time for me to tell you guys why I asked all of us to meet."

Eyes turned towards the de facto leader of the Resistance. Denzel readjusted his glasses before sliding a holographic projector to the middle of the table. He clicked on a remote, activating the projector and bathing the room in a blue light. It was an amazing map, showing a three dimensional view of the capital city, including the intricate subways and main sewers which ran underground.

"My god, Denzel," said Erica, "how the hell did you get your hands on this? This is something only government officials could access."

"The Triton planetary government no longer exists," deadpanned Denzel, "You can thank the Advent for that. I managed to steal several terabytes of data from government servers in the chaotic days after the Advent invaded. This map was protected by an encryption key and I just recently managed to unlock it."

He pressed another button, splitting the map of the city into various sectors and highlighting one. "This is the waterfront district. Marc, what's the status of our cells in that area?" Every person in the room, aside from Rachel, Denzel, and Joey, was in charge of the Resistance organizations in the separate districts of the capital city.

Marc leaned back in his chair, "The waterfront is one hundred percent a-okay. The Advent haven't caught a single Resistance member for months, and neither have they picked up on the weapons that we've been distributing. I'd estimate that about fifty or sixty percent of the population supports us in some way—whether it's giving supplies or intelligence. We've even begun spreading the word by mouth in the communal kitchens, considering as the Advent hardly ever watch those places."

"That's very good news," said Denzel, "but also very dangerous. We can't afford to blow our presence in the area by getting too complacent. How soon do you think will your people be ready to begin the operation?"

"Two, three weeks, maybe," said Marc, "two, definitely, if distributions go on schedule."

"We're on a similar time estimate," said Adrian. He and Erica were in charge of operations in the western industrial districts. Denzel highlighted the relevant part of the map. "The Resistance in the industrial district hasn't been able to spread as far, but we're in touch with the union leaders of the factories. We've been using their organizations to help with distributions and training."

Erica interrupted, "There isn't enough equipment to go around, though. If we decide to make our move as planned, we'll need a significant distraction if we want a chance of taking out the Advent guard stations." She brushed a lock of hair out of her face as she gestured to the map, noting the locations of guard depots in the industrial district.

"Riot," said Joey.

The room swiveled towards him.

Joey hesitated for a second, before continuing, "We don't have enough weapons to arm the whole city, as we only have what we scavenged from militia armories. Until we seize control of some heavy weapons, the best we can do is give the Advent a sizable distraction to provide cover for our armed squads."

"And a riot...the Advent Psionics would be too concerned about the enflamed emotions, too concerned to pay attention to a few divergences," said Denzel, nodding thoughtfully.

"Exactly. If we keep that element of surprise, we could seize the guard depots and then move swiftly to take control of the Spaceport before the Psintegrats can respond." The Spaceport was located in the center of the capital city. Taking control of it meant capturing the AA and AS batteries there, cutting off Advent reinforcements.

"I have an issue with this," said Marc. "It's a great distraction, for sure, but what if the Advent respond violently to the riots? If a crowd gets gunned down and the rest of the city loses their nerve, we might ruin the whole damn operation."

"It's not like we have many other options," Joey retorted, "and we should take the risk. We're in the business of liberating our planet, so we're going to have to accept some casualties."

Marc stood up, "And who are you to begin dictating what we should or should not do? Maybe being a pilot, you are more accustomed to taking reckless actions. But the militia sure don't put the lives of innocent folks on the line. You're too busy to realize how much of a sacrifice you're asking for."

Anger flared, and Joey's jaw tightened as he bit back, "The militia aren't the only ones who have lost people. My entire squadron was destroyed. I'm the last surviving starfighter pilot on this planet."

"Christ, you two, this isn't a competition. Can't we work together?" said Adrian, trying to get the meeting back on track.

Marc continued, ignoring Adrian, "Which begs the question, why is a pilot sitting in with the leadership of the Resistance? I still don't see why your 'expertise' is needed here."

"That's enough, both of you!" It was from Rachel, who up to this point had been quietly leaning against the wall. She was approaching the table now, her authority blanketing over the bickering. Both Joey and Marc shut up and slowly sat back down.

"I think," she began, "that the idea of orchestrating riots is a good one. So long as they don't get too out of hand _until_ we've taken control of the guard depots, we can probably avoid a harsh Advent reprisal. It'll be extremely difficult to pull off, though."

Rachel turned to Janila, "I know there have been a couple demonstrations in the North Side in the past few months. Rioting there would be expected by the Advent, so they probably wouldn't suspect any organization to it. If you can begin devoting your time to orchestrating these distractions in your district, that can be the starting point of a chain reaction throughout the city." She addressed the rest of the group. "We'd only have one shot at this. Our plans for attacking the guard depots would be the same, but we'd have to get our timing down to the last second."

The members of the Resistance nodded their heads, although Marc still looked doubtful.

Gustav, who was in charge of the Resistance in the central districts, now spoke up, "Most of the Psintegrat in the capital are lodging in my district. They'd realize that a riot was orchestrated if we try organizing that many people so close to them."

"Then we'll leave your district for last," said Rachel, "And no riots. Just attack. Once the Advent have been distracted enough by city-wide demonstrations, we seize the guard stations in the other districts. And with that step done, we can have our armed squads in the central district begin operations. It'd be crucial in order to give my team time to capture the Spaceport." Rachel was going to be personally leading the strike team which would hit their main objective. The riskiest and most important job.

Denzel reached and turned off the holographic map. "That's just the basic outline of the coming operation. We'll go over all the details and hand out operation plans to each of you. I think we should take a break, and come back to address those issues in a little bit."

The room murmured their acknowledgement and began to filter out.

Joey was about to find himself a nice cup of coffee, preferably _real _coffee and not the synthetic crap, when Rachel addressed him, "Joey, if you could stay for a minute."

Stifling his disappointment, Joey turned around. Denzel was still seated at the head of the table and Rachel stood next to him.

They really were amazing in keeping the organization together, thought Joey. Denzel provided the analysis and logistics skills needed to build the Resistance and Rachel was the backbone, the iron bands which kept the whole group together. It was the combination of the two which gave Triton's Resistance a fledgling chance at beating their Advent occupiers.

"What's up?" asked Joey.

"Well, we figured we ought to tell you why we invited you to the meeting," said Denzel.

"Yeah, Marc can be ass, but he was right when he asked why you were a part of the planning committee," said Rachel, "Your input is great and all, but that's not the main purpose."

"So what is the main purpose?" Joey huffed. Was it too much to ask to be appreciated with a 'glad to have you on the team?'

"The question no one has really asked yet is what to do about the Advent cruisers orbiting Triton. Even if we take the Spaceport, the AS batteries can shoot down incoming vessels but do nothing against ships that are perfectly willing to bombard the planet from space."

"Additionally," added Denzel, "you know that we've been organizing the Resistance movements in other regions of Triton. The most crucial battle, yes, is here in the capital. But we have underground militia units all over the planet, ready to strike when we give the word. And our people out there have absolutely zero protection against orbital strikes."

Joey had wondered about the issue of the Advent's dominance in space, but always assumed that Rachel and Denzel had a plan for it. "Well, I don't know how much I can do about that. Even if you managed to get me in a gunship or a starfighter, I couldn't take on the dozen or so Advent ships out there in space."

"You won't have to," said Denzel. "We've been in contact with the TEC."

"What? Really?" Joey was astounded. Triton was way behind enemy lines at this point.

"Yes, this little Resistance of ours isn't working solo. We've been planning in conjunction with TEC navy command," said Denzel. "There are going to be uprisings all throughout Advent-occupied space, and the TEC is preparing for a simultaneous offensive to give those rebellions a chance in succeeding. There is a detachment from the 22nd Special Operations Fleet several phase jumps away, which will begin their attack on Triton once they receive news that we're in control of the Spaceport."

That was very interesting, but Joey's questions weren't answered, "Listen, I still have no idea how I fit into this."

"I was getting to that. The TEC is concerned about the orbital defense platforms that the Advent have built in Triton's gravity well. On one hand, the TEC isn't willing to risk a whole fleet in recapturing Triton. On the other, they're concerned that what ships that they _are _going to be sending won't be enough to destroy both the Advent vessels _and _the Beam Defenses out in space."

"Classic TEC, always running their cost-benefit calculations," remarked Joey. Rachel smirked.

Denzel continued, "In any case, we're going to have to do our part in helping the battle out there in space. Joey, you're the only one in the Resistance who can pilot starships _and_ has experience with communications in military operations. When Rachel's team captures the spaceport, we're putting you in charge of the next phase."

Rachel picked up where Denzel had left off, "We have a couple other pilots, from civilian backgrounds. After we capture the spaceport, each pilot will fly a demolitions squad out. There are four Beam Defense platforms that the Advent have set up, so there will be four squads. Once they arrive, each squad will set explosives to destroy the defense platform, and high-tail it out of there. That should give the TEC the edge they need to be able to destroy the Advent cruisers, and prevent our movement on the ground from getting bombarded to hell and back."

"This sounds like something out of a bank heist film," said Joey slowly. He was trying not to think about being put in charge of that operation phase. "There's a very high chance that us pilots will get destroyed long before we can reach those platforms."

"Well, the ship we have in mind for you to pilot ought to even those odds. A little." Denzel added the last bit after a short pause. "We intercepted a manifest a few weeks back. These ships are in storage at the spaceport, just sitting there." He held up a photo. "Do you recognize them?"

Joey took a look. They were sleak gunships, looking almost like a starfighter despite being of a much larger size and having bulkier engines. Autocannons were slung on their wings. "Hellsfire T-80 Cosmic Transports. I thought only the TEC Marines used those?"

"Yeah, well it turns out there were a few in transit here on Triton. When the Advent attacked, they've been sitting and gathering dust ever since. Do you think they'll do?"

Joey was getting excited, like a child before Christmas. He'd never flown a Hellsfire before. "Denzel, you give me the chance to fly and I sure as hell will take it." He paused, feeling some uncertainty seep in. "But, uh, to be honest, I don't think I'm the right guy to be leading this part of the operation."

"Jo," said Rachel, "none of our other pilots lined up have flown in a combat situation before. You're the only one we have who could help train them for that."

Joey cleared his throat, "I mean, I've only been in combat once. And during that fight, my entire squadron got destroyed. I don't, really, I mean, I don't think I'm up to being the leader for this part."

"Let me put it this way, if you don't step up, more likely than not we're all going to get atomized by orbital bombardment. This whole uprising depends on timing and everything going off without a hitch. We need you to be communicating with the incoming TEC ships and to make sure that the demolition teams make it to their targets. So are you going to get your ass in gear, or do we have to put your self confidence in the kiddy car seat?" Rachel raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms.

Shit. "Alright, fine. I'll do it." Joey threw his hands up. "Just don't burn an effigy of me when it's my fault this whole thing goes bust."

"Chances are, we'll be burning for real if that becomes the case," chuckled Denzel without much humor. "But let's not go into this with that kind of mentality."

"Okay, so, what about the demolitions team? Do we have enough people with sufficient knowledge for that stuff?" asked Joey.

"Let us take care of that part," said Rachel, "you just handle the flying part. We'll put you into contact with the other pilots, and set up a discreet meeting time."

There was a knock on the door, and the three looked up. Erica poked her head in, "Hey Denzel, do you want to discuss the other details of the operation now?"

"Yeah, yeah, let's do that," said Denzel, "get everyone back here." He readjusted his glasses. "Joey, I don't think there's anything else pressing that we need to cover right now. If you want, you can head out. It might be easier to slip by the checkpoints during this time anyways."

Joey acknowledged this, standing up and began to exit the room. He stopped and turned back for a second, "So, about three weeks until we begin the operation?"

Denzel nodded. "Three weeks."

"Okay," said Joey. He left the room, heading through the building and to the door from which he had arrived. Hans was still standing guard at the door, and let him through.

As the steel door of the building closed shut behind him, Joey looked up at the sky, framed by the concrete and piping of the alleyway. It was a pale grey and it felt as if it was going to rain soon.

"I hope to God that we're ready by then," said Joey, to no one in particular. He then adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt and began to walk away. As his footsteps echoed on the narrow street of the ghetto and a gentle pattering of raindrops drizzled over him, Joseph Antonson, former Warrant Officer of the Triton planetary defense force, quickly blended back in with the urban sprawl, once more becoming a nameless resident of the city.

* * *

**Codex Entry: Transcript of Advent Trooper Communications, 12.30.1346, Occupying Force on Planet of Triton**

**Location: **Triton City Center, Main Boulevard

**Trooper 1: **Jiuro Moalis

**Trooper 2: **Theo Kenia

1: Can you actually see anything in this helmet?

2: No, not really.

1: Then why do we have to wear them?

2: Scares the hell out of the humans, I guess.

1: The helmets do look pretty cool from the outside.

2: Here, check it out.

[directed to passerby]

*Trooper 2 makes crackling noises with radio while staring directly at passerby*

1: Ha ha ha. That stuff never gets old.

2: That shriek of terror, though. Best part of this dumb job.

1: Classic, classic. I wish I could have seen the look on that guy's face though.

2: Oh…yeah.

1: I mean, not like we have to really worry about someone attacking us. The Traders assume that all of us have psionic powers.

2: Man, I wish.

1: It sucks. I'm not biologically compatible with the high end PsiTech stuff. No reading minds over here.

2: Guess that explains why you're stuck with this crummy job.

1: At least we get in contact with girls who aren't more powerful than we are.

2: Way to be sexist, dude.

1: No, no. I mean, it's hard to get some when the girl you're with can read your mind. It's pretty awkward when they figure out that you're not planning on calling them for a second date.

2: True.

1: Telekinesis can…have its uses though.

2: Never gone there. I wouldn't know.

1: Do you want to know?

2: No.

*silence*

1: [sigh]

2: What is it?

1: I really hate this helmet. I wish I could see something. Have I told you that?

2: Yes. About a minute ago.

1: Oh, all right then. Pardon me for trying to make friendly conversation.

2: I'm not paid enough to be nice to you.

1: Fine. [pause] Want to play 'I Spy'?

2: Okay, sure.

1: I spy…something dark.

2: The inside of your helmet.

1: You got it!

2: [sigh] I hate my job.

* * *

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone still reading and following this story! I wanted to explore the game mechanic of uprisings which happen when an alien culture is strong enough on the planet, and this was the result. These characters and Joey's POV will probably appear more often in the future, as well.

School year is winding down, and it's kind of bittersweet in these last few weeks of my high school career. A couple months of summer and then I'll be off to college! While that's exciting and all, I'll miss seeing my classmates and friends. It feels like the end of an era for me.


	10. Chapter 10: The Coalescences

** -Unknown Location**, **Advent Space, 1.30.1347-**

It was one of the few times that so many of the greatest minds of the Advent race were meeting together at the same time. These types of meetings were only for very special circumstances, where extremely difficult and controversial decisions must be made. They were coming together to make the kinds of decisions that the normal bureaucracy and military councils did not have the authority or ability to make. Naturally, with so many celebrated minds in one place, arrogance and rivalry were running very high—almost as soon as the meeting had started.

They were not seated in the same room. At least, not physically. Holographic projections presented an eerie sight of nine translucent three-dimensional images set out around the table. There was just enough detail to make out the differences in facial features among the nine High Priestesses, but none of those at the meeting needed that visual cue. The intangible aura of each consciousness had long been memorized by the others. It was a testament to their psionic powers that they could detect the slightest difference on the planes of spacetime.

Each of them were the highest ranking member of the respective nine coalescences: the Ast Eternal, Cult of Cerebri, Hand of Illus, Prophets of Zei, Psi Order Zealots, Raesaedia Sect, Rolus Solbare, Voice of Senar, and the Xon Precept. Responsible for the advancement of Advent society towards enlightenment in their separate duties, a meeting between all nine of the High Priestesses came about only in times of great strife.

The Priestesses of Illus and Xon had derailed the conversation into the subject of long-held personal grievances as the meeting descended into petty squabbling between the rivals. Other priestesses joined in, adding to the chaos of discussion. Despite the appearance of a unified front presented to the public, the various coalescences disagreed heavily on interpretation of religious text, the meaning of rituals, and the various progressions in technology. One of the many reasons why the nine coalescences usually left decision making to the normal branches of government was because of the lack of unanimity among them.

"This has gone too far off track!" said the priestess of the Ast Eternal. Her voice and thought blanketed over the chaos. "Leave your disagreements for another time. The concern is on what we shall do about the xeno species."

"We know too little about the Vasari," said the priestess of Raesaedia, "and we should not have started this war with the Traders until we had learned more. Now the future is murky, clouded, and uncertain."

"Yet we all agreed to begin the war nevertheless," said the priestess of the Psi Order Zealots, "and who among us can say that our decision was the wrong one?"

The Cult of Cerebri spoke, "We knew the Traders were weakened by their war with the Vasari. But we also assumed that since the xenos were locked in a stalemate with the TEC, the alien species could not be too difficult to defeat."

"Victory is almost assured," said the militaristic Hand of Illus, "we are only held back by fear and an over-reliance on visions rather than the truth of the _present _reality."

"Agreed," said the priestess of the Zealots, "I question why we do not carry our cause forward to defeat the Traders, and then turn our resources towards conquering the Vasari."

Ast Eternal cut off the retort which the Xon Precept was preparing to say, attempting to bring the discussion back to the main subject. "Whatever the case, we do know that the Vasari are an unknown factor. We have made no attempt at opening avenues of official talks, but sooner or later we will come into more direct contact. We must develop a strategy of how we shall deal with them, lest the initiative be given to them or the Traders."

"We have an opportunity to develop an alliance," said the priestess of Cerebri, "as both the Advent and Vasari carry the same cause of defeating the Traders. Diplomacy would carry us through."

Rolus Solbare nodded her head and added, "Even if we never adopt a formal alliance, friendly relations would bring us both prosperity. With trade comes an exchange of ideas. We could get access to potentially very beneficial pieces of alien technology."

The Xon Precept spoke up, "All we know for certain is that charging in to solve our problems head on," she glanced at the Hand of Illus, "has not worked so far. Diplomacy should at least be tried first. Perhaps we could gain the edge we need to get us out of this mess with the Traders."

"That would mean working with and compromising with the Vasari and the Vasari beliefs," said the priestess of the Ast Eternal.

"Since when do we compromise with heretical ideas?" asked the Hand of Illus, derisively. "If you truly believe that the Unity is the _only _truth in this universe, then we would never work with those who promote alien virtues."

Raesaedia added, "I must agree with this. Should we not take the care to carefully examine what the Vasari objectives are before attempting to reach out to them?"

"We know enough," said the Zealot, "enough to see that they are a primitive, barbaric species that with no potential for enlightenment through PsiTech."

"You cannot know that." The priestess of the Prophets of Zei spoke up for the first time, "The planes of space and time become mangled as we examine the Vasari. There is something…different and foreboding which prevents us from clear certainty of the future. None of us know whether the Vasari could come to accept the righteous truth."

"Look at the picture in front of you," said the Hand of Illus, her voice and thought attacking the priestess of Zei, "Can you not see that it is a case of heretics attempting to kill heretics? Their openly malevolent nature is plain for all to see."

"And what would you have us do?" The Xon Precept had a long rivalry with Illus, and the acidity in her tone seeped through. "Launch another offensive? Bring us another enemy? Spread our fleets even more thinly to try and stake our claim on as many systems as possible?"

"We have the strength!" responded Illus, "It has been only our unwillingness to embrace the true power bequeathed to us that our conflict with the Traders has lasted these many months."

Cerebri's voice rang out, "The only truth here is that the TEC is far from defeat. Their recent counteroffensive has shown that they are far from exhaustion, let alone collapse."

"Yet their counteroffensive was stopped, was it not?" said the Zealot as she rose to defend Illus, "They managed to recapture only a handful of worlds before we vanquished their vanguard. Their pitiful attempts at rebellion were, by and large, crushed by the power of our Psintegrates."

The Voice of Senar spoke, but very softly in contrast to the bellicose tones of the Zealot, "Not all of the rebellions were crushed. Even if the TEC offensive was stopped, they managed to regain some of their territory. Many Advent lost their lives because of our inability to predict that the uprisings would occur."

Several of the fleet commanders who had died during the recent series of uprisings had belonged to the coalescence of the Voice of Senar. The high priestess was visibly affected by their loss.

The reminder of the setback put the Hand of Illus back a step, but the militaristic priestess continued, albeit in a more reasonable tone, "Nevertheless, we still own the momentum of the war. We could own the entirety of TEC space and be halfway to victory against the Vasari within two years if we pushed all our resources wholeheartedly into the effort."

"This is nonsense," said Cerebri. "Even with our technological superiority, we should stay within reasonable estimates. We know our fleets are not strong enough for such a swift victory."

"Perhaps not currently. But if we accelerated development on the Engine and the Starbase, we would," said Illus.

The room went quiet for a moment. Then Raesaedia spoke up in a hush, "The…Engine of Deliverance?"

"Yes," said Illus, "that combined with the Transcencia Starbase, we could roll over our enemies nearly unopposed."

"Work on the Transcencia Starbase was discontinued because of recurring logistical problems," Ast Eternal responded, "The opportunity cost of developing those defensive structures means that we could only accelerate our efforts if we had no other choice."

"And the Deliverance Engine…" said Raesaedia, "never mind the immense _cost _of building that weapon. I thought that we had decided not to continue construction because of the humanitarian reasons involved."

"Yes," said the Voice of Senar, "The idea of causing families and communities to slaughter each other by blanketing their planets with psychological messages was too much for all of us, no matter the potential exploitation we could make from such chaos."

"But imagine," piped up the Zealot, "imagine being able to complete our vengeance on the Trade Order…and bringing enlightenment across the galaxy, all within a few years. This could be the opportunity we have been waiting for."

The Xon Precept looked thoughtful for a moment, "Although it pains me to admit it, I have to say that I would not be adverse to this. So long as we can expand without weakening our strength…"

"No." Cerebri and the Ast Eternal spoke at the same time, the strength in their voices clear. They looked at one another and then Ast Eternal continued, "We already decided on these issues. The situation may have changed slightly, but the status of the Deliverance Engine and the Transcencia Starbase is not what we have come here to discuss."

"Until we have decided what to do about the Vasari, there should be no more discussion on whether or not to restart our efforts on those weapons," added Cerebri.

Most of the priestesses nodded and agreed, besides the Hand of Illus and the Zealot.

"So, it seems we only really have two choices here," said Ast Eternal, "Diplomacy, with the prospect of trade agreements and a cultural and technological exchange. Or beginning hostilities, in the name of the Unity."

She looked over the assembled priestesses, "All those in favor of diplomacy?"

"Aye," said the Cult of Cerebri.

"Nay," said the Hand of Illus.

"Ayesaid the Prophets of Zei.

"Nay," said the Psi Order Zealots.

"Aye," said the Raesaedia Sect.

"Aye," said the Rolus Solbare.

"Aye," said the Voice of Senar.

The Xon Precept hesitated. Then, noting the inevitable result, she finally said, "Aye."

"Aye," said the High Priestess of the Ast Eternal and she nodded her head, "Seven for, two against. We shall begin preparations for envoys and diplomatic vessels to make contact with the Vasari."

"I request that my coalescence send one of our priestesses to head the diplomatic venture," said the Cult of Cerebri, "as we have several candidates who are already extremely experienced with delicate negotiations."

"Then it shall be your responsibility," said Ast Eternal. "If we have nothing further to discuss, then this meeting is now concluded."

And with that, the assembled High Priestesses winked out of existence, their holographic projections disappearing without a trace from the room. But for several moments, the Hand of Illus and the Zealot lingered. They glanced at one another, and then exited without a word spoken.

Later that day, a commlink opened up between two hidden, secure locations. The connection was protected against outside tampering and guarded by several layers of communication PsiTech. No one would be able to listen in, not even the most skilled of the electromagnetic Psintegrates.

On one end sat the High Priestess of the Hand of Illus. Her steel gray hair glimmered with the PsiTech lines that stretched across her body, disappearing under her simplistic robe. She spoke into the holo.

"Xera, it's me."

On the other end, the High Priestess of the Psi Order Zealots responded. "Kestia."

Kestia, as was the given name of the priestess of Illus, leaned forward, "Xera, you and I have worked together for so many years now. I also understand that you are not happy with the results of the meeting earlier today."

"Yes, that is true," said Xera, looking back at Kestia without blinking, "and I suppose you have a plan to swing things in our favor?"

"More than just 'swing', my friend."

"I'm listening."

"The unwillingness of the other priestesses to begin hostilities with the Vasari is only due to their inability to see the true, vicious nature of the xenos. This is because we have truly made direct contact with them." As Kestia spoke, her mind pushed outwards, pressing the images and emotions which she felt onto the barrier of Xera's mind. She was using her psionics to emphasize the sincerity of what she spoke of. "If, for example, hostilities were to commence before the Cult of Cerebri's diplomatic envoy reach the Vasari, the Advent would have no choice but to wheel our war machine to engage them as well."

"Commence hostilities?" Xera's voice was curious, "Are you saying we provoke a conflict? How could we manage that?"

"Xera, I know that there are several scouting flotillas whose commanders are fully under your influence."

"Go on."

"If a 'scouting mission' were to be sent out into Vasari space, those ships could have the true objective of raiding or attacking Vasari assets. Provided you keep all of this secret, the scouting mission could then return without anyone knowing the wiser. And when the Vasari launch an attack in retribution, which they will, that will convince all of the other priestesses of the necessity to proceed with violence."

"And send Advent off to die? Kestia, this is becoming a little much for me. I don't know if I could support something like this."

"Xera," Kestia's mind pressed forward, "You want more than me to see the Unity spread across this galaxy. And you know that the only way that will happen is if we continue work on our super weapons. Until we are pitted into a greater conflict, there is no way that your dream will ever come true. So long as corrupt individuals are in power of the other coalescences, we will have to operate in the shadows to work the situation to our favor. Now, are you a true Advent, or are you weakening in your resolve?"

Xera was silent for a long moment. Then she slowly nodded her head, "Okay. This really is the only way. So long as there is never any way for the Vasari to communicate through diplomatic channels, no one could ever know."

"For many of our people, the first real contact with the Vasari will come in the message of an unprovoked, meaningless alien attack on our borders. Nobody will be advocating for diplomacy after that."

Xera continued. "We could even get the Cult of Cerebri to support the war. Especially if, say, the Vasari attack destroys the envoy which the Cerebri decide to send." The High Priestess of the Psi Order Zealots coughed, obviously a little discomforted by her own suggestion.

"Timing our moves will be difficult. But it will all be the greater cause," said Kestia. "When the Deliverance Engine finally gets finished and the war comes to a close, we will be hailed as heroes."

Xera nodded again and huffed out a short breath. "All right. Then let's begin."


	11. Chapter 11: The Drowning Hero

A/N: Super duper special thanks to **TheSilenceisVast**, **Foacir**, and **Zackbfunky **for reviewing. This one is dedicated to **Foacir **in particular for being a total BOSS and giving me the motivation to keep on writing.

* * *

-**Joey** **Antonson**—

**-TEC Naval Space Station Delta, Eastern Command HQ, 2.04. 1347—**

Bodies, some clad in the grey and white uniform of the Advent troopers and others in the mismatched clothing of Resistance fighters, littered the floor of the Spaceport. The T-80 Cosmic transports were being prepared by a crew of technicians. Squads were rushing to pre-planned positions. There were a few Resistance members simply idling, waiting for new orders as the chaotic situation unfolded and became more disorganized with each following second. Joey was waiting on his leader, anxiously awaiting any change in plan.

Rachel casually held an SMG in one hand as she listened to the radio in the other. When the transmission finished, she nods her head. "Copy that. Strike-One out."

She turned to a squad leader. "We've got an Advent tank brigade moving through the central districts and heading to our positions. Get as many as men as you can spare and bring them out to the perimeter defenses." The squad leader acknowledges and runs off to carry out the order.

Joey rushed over. "Boss, what's the word?"

"No change in plan for the pilots, Joey," she says. "Try and lift off in the next five minutes if you can."

"You said there's Advent armor in the central districts? What happened to Gustav's men?"

"Almost all gone. Couldn't even reach Gus himself. One of his lieutenants was going to try and fend them off for as long as he could."

"So what now?" asked Joey, "You can't be seriously thinking of going against tanks, are you?"

"What else can I do?" she snapped. "I'll take a team to link up with some of Janila's people and set up an ambush zone. We'll bottleneck them in the streets. Now if you'll excuse me, I have troops to prepare and you have a plane to catch." She was marching to the door.

He hurried alongside. "Rachel, you've got hardly any anti-armor weapons. The most you'll do is stall them."

"And that's all we need. If we can hold the Spaceport long enough for you to knock out their Beam Defenses and for the TEC fleet to show up, our objective is complete."

Joey put himself in her path, stopping her mid-stride. "At least let me take a gunship to provide some air support. You'll get ripped to shreds otherwise."

"No, Joey. Stick to the plan."

"We've got enough pilots to hit the orbital structures. What you don't have is anyone skilled enough to give some close-fire support, except for me. I could cut down half their column on a single tank of fuel!"

"I said no!" she barked. "Jesus Christ, I'm not planning on committing suicide here. Have some faith in me."

"But—"

Rachel cut him off. "Just trust me. We'll handle our part here on the ground, no problem. Stick to the plan. You handle your part. Okay?"

Joey didn't say anything.

Rachel huffed for a second, before lightly hitting him on the shoulder. "Trust me, Jo. We'll be fine." She forced a small smile. "Now get your ass to your bird."

Joey acquiesced, moving to the side and heading to the transport which would take him and a demolition team up to the Advent orbital defenses. But he turned back for just a moment. Rachel was already back in action, shouting out orders and readying the armed Resistance fighters to take the fight to the streets.

It was a sight which burned itself into his memory.

* * *

Joseph Antonson opened his eyes from the restless sleep.

It took him a second to remember that he wasn't on Triton anymore. The matte grey coloring of his room was so very similar to the concrete ceiling of the dingy apartment that he had hidden in for months.

No, he was safe. No more dodging patrols. No more Advent checkpoints. No more late-night meetings with Resistance members.

At that last thought, Joey felt heavy. As if the dullness of loss had regained their points and dug once more into him, dragging him down the weight of the sacrifice. He exhaled a shaky breath and pointedly looked away from the ceiling.

He listened to the numbing hum of the station's generators. It was almost imperceptible, but when he was quiet for long enough and slowed his heartbeat and just sat on the bed without thinking, he could feel the gentle reverberations of the machines which relentlessly went about their task deep within the space station.

After he heard that hum, he couldn't fucking not hear it anymore. It was driving him nuts.

Joey fidgeted, giving in to the urge to adjust himself on the narrow, lumpy bed. On the table next to the bed, his holo was blinking with the urgency of messages unread. The light getting to his nerves, Joey reached over and hit a key. The blinking stopped. He laid back down on the bed.

It wasn't a healthy situation. Not physically or mentally. He knew that. He just couldn't bring himself to care enough.

By any logic, Joey knew that he should be used to this feeling by now. It was not the first time he had lost comrades before. Sole Survivor 2.0.

But it still hurt. It hurt so much more this time. The first time, when the Advent had invaded Triton and the rest of his fighter squadron had been blown out of the sky, Joey had been quickly swept up in the chaos that followed. Joining the roots of the Resistance movement and spending half the day trying to escape being caught had eaten up all his time. He had had no time to grieve then.

And all their efforts had pulled off in the end. Triton was liberated. The Advent occupiers decimated. Never mind the craters which now dotted the Capital City. Never mind the thousands of rebels who had died in the process. Never mind the fact that out of the high ranking Resistance leaders residing in the capital, there were only two left now. One, if he didn't count himself—which he really shouldn't, considering that he was a "Resistance leader" only when it came to flying.

Both Rachel and Denzel had told Joey, separately, that victory was all that mattered. At the time, Joey had always thought that they were trying to bolster their own confidence and narrow their resolve. In hindsight, he realized that they were willing to sacrifice anything, even their own lives, for the sake of an ideal.

The math was in their favor, this time. Not like Rachel and Denzel were around to enjoy it, or that there would ever be another time.

So former Warrant Officer Joey Antonson celebrated the liberation of Triton by lying in bed, listening to his own heartbeat. He promised himself a bottle of liquor later in the evening to spice up the festivities.

A knock on his door roused him from his heavy thoughts. A second later, it opened and Marc walked in, wearing the dark grey dress uniform of a PDF militiaman. A silvery cross shimmered on his chest.

"Hey."

Joey didn't look up.

Marc at least tried to look bashful, as if he wasn't deliberately interrupting Joey's self-induced aura of mourning. He cleared his throat before starting to talk.

"You missed the ceremony, you know."

Joey rested an arm over his eyes. "Yup."

"There were a lot of high-ranking brass there. Fleet Admiral Tyrol presented the awards."

"Cool."

Marc made a disgruntled snort and then hesitated, as if he was going to say something rude and had thought better of it. "Why didn't you come?"

Joey gave a long sigh and then sat up. "What does it matter to you?"

"What?" came the surprised reply.

"You never liked me, Marc. In fact, if we wanted to be completely honest, we hated each other for every second that we had to work together. Now you have what you always wanted, don't you? Your goddamn medal, a fancy promotion, Fleet Admiral Tyrol's fingers all over you. You don't even have to share the credit anymore. So why the hell are you here?"

Marc shot a vicious glare back at the bedraggled warrant officer. "I wasn't here for you. This was for Denzel, Rachel, the rest of the guys. I thought they might have wanted me to at least try to get your ass out the mud." He spat on the ground. "Guess you're too pathetic to see that. Maybe if you weren't so worthless, they all would still be here." He turned to leave, letting that last barb sink in. But he paused and thoughtlessly tossed something onto Joey's stomach. "Congratulations, you piece of shit." And then he left.

Joey seethed, his fury and grief mixing together to form something that he couldn't vocalize. Instead it settled within him, making him feel sick as his regret clawed at him from within.

He looked down at the medal in his hands. The Cross of the Lion. The third highest military accolade awarded by the Trader Emergency Coalition. He looked on the back.

A short statement in ancient, unfamiliar script stared back at him but Joey knew, as all military personnel knew, what it said. _For Resilience and Honor._

What a joke.

He almost hurled it against the wall but something held him back. It was as if Rachel was there, reprimanding him for attempting such a childish action. He lowered his arm and then unceremoniously dropped the medal on the table next to the bed.

Joey's earlier plans of drinking alone came back to him. Alcohol would do him some good right now.

* * *

"What is this?"

"A lager. What you ordered."

"It tastes like horse piss."

The bartender glared at Joey and went back to polishing. Joey gulped the beer down anyways.

The lounge was deserted at this late hour. The lack of company suited the young pilot just fine.

He felt an emptiness within him. Like the spark that had once kept him driven and determined was just…gone. Snuffed out. A listless ship without a rudder.

On Triton, the rebellion against the Advent had been built up with miniscule steps. A change of half a percentage in the statistics, slowly ticking over into their favor. It had been a life of putting in all your effort without any guarantee of success. But in those months, he had felt like he was accomplishing something.

Joey didn't delude himself into thinking that he was the key piece of the Resistance. Sure, his flying skills had been the ace up their figurative sleeve, but he was just one out of many in the global effort. And somehow, he had still felt like he was doing something meaningful. He didn't need medals, or a uniform, or even a rank. He hadn't been Warrant Officer Antonson, Cross of the Lion recipient. He had just been Joey. Resistance members who didn't know him well just called him the "pilot dude".

He had a rank now. He had a flashy dress uniform. He had the thanks of some nameless admirals for his "instrumental" role in the liberation of Triton.

And he felt like shit.

The warrant officer was about to order another drink when he felt someone sit down on the stool next to him at the bar.

It was a woman. Maybe late-thirties Prematurely graying hair. She was wearing something that potentially could have passed for a utility uniform—Joey's vision was getting a little blurry at that point. The woman held her own drink (cranberry juice?), casually sipping from it.

It took approximately 2.4 seconds before the noise of the _sipping _got to Joey's nerves. He pointedly cleared his throat, hoping to get the message across to other person to find somewhere else to sit. The woman didn't move. The sipping continued.

Sip.

Ugh, Joey mentally groaned. "Listen, do you need something?" he said, turning his head.

"A Class-3 freighter full of crystals, the schematics for Cyclotaurite Missile Payloads, and a bottle of Vasari brandy," the woman promptly said while taking another sip of her cranberry juice.

"Huh, well that's awfully specific," said Joey.

"Hey, you're the one that asked."

Joey scratched his head. "So what do you need all those things for?"

Sip. "Well, I was taking a look at some statistics yesterday, and they said that the cost of building a small home on one of the garden worlds in the Belsian Strip was about the equivalent to the value of a large freighter's haul from a crystal asteroid." She cracked a grin. "Always wanted to have a place in the Belsian Strip. You ever been there?

The pilot numbly shook his head. "No…uh, never really left home, I guess."

"Never left your home system? But you're a pilot, aren't you?" asked the woman, gesturing to the shoulder patch on Joey's utility uniform.

"Yeah. But I was in the Planetary Defense Force." Joey unconsciously added an emphasis to the past tense _was._

"That's a shame. Best part of the military is all the traveling you get to do, free of charge."

Joey snorted. "Free ticket straight to the middle of some alien's plasma minefield. I'll pass."

"Ah, but see, I've visited over five hundred star systems. I have no end of good stories to tell," the woman said, smirking.

"Were those good stories worth all the plasma mines?"

"Not really," she said. "And the plasma mines were the least of my problems."

They both chuckled. The woman stuck out a hand. "The name's Ramos."

"Joey." They shook.

Withdrawing her hand, Ramos took another sip of her cranberry juice. "So Joey, what's the hero of the Triton resistance doing at this late hour?"

The young pilot coughed. "You know who I am?"

"Have you seen this place?" said Ramos, "This is a space station housing Eastern Fleet Command. The only people who have the free time to get a drink from the bar are so-called heroes drowning their sorrows and worn-out officers on leave."

"I was _not _drowning my sorrows."

She raised an eyebrow.

"…I was wallowing. There's a difference."

Ramos gave him a serious look in the eye. "Whatever the word you use, the end result is the same."

"Oh yeah? And what might that be?" said Joey.

"It's that whoever you're drinking in memory of, you're pissing on their grave by trying to lose yourself in a bottle."

Joey's mood darkened as he processed Ramos' words. His earlier anger with Marc, having been stifled by the inebriation, surged back tenfold.

"Who," he growled, "the hell do you think you are?"

Ramos calmly took another sip. "Someone who's seen over five hundred different star systems." She paused. "Every ticket has a price."

"You can't imagine what I feel right now. You don't know what went down and you didn't _know the people that died._" Joey almost spat. He was confused by the rapid change in his own emotions. Is this who he had become? Someone who flew off the handle with the slightest provocation? But his fury drowned out any reason.

"Actually I do know what 'went down'," said Ramos. She reached up to her shoulder and pointed to a patch sown there. Winged boots. Joey recognized the symbol immediately: the Reconnaissance Forces of the Department of Naval Intelligence. "Level three clearance. I know everyone you worked with, the play by play details of your insurrection, and how it all went down. I have a pretty good idea of how you feel right now."

Joey could not express the hate that he felt towards this woman. But he just turned back to his drink. "Leave me alone."

"Joey, what do you plan to do? Keep withdrawing and lashing out forever? Rather, until you get court martialed for dereliction of duty?"

"Maybe. Whatever. I don't care."

"Maybe you don't," said Ramos, ."your dead comrades certainly do."

"What?" said Joey, startled.

She turned and looked at him.

"How many people have died in this war so far?" asked Ramos.

The warrant officer looked at her quizzically. "Uh, I don't know. More than I can count."

"Six," she said, "since we've started this conversation."

He had nothing to say to that. It was as if the hollowness in the room was palpable. Joey awkwardly grasped his drink, fishing for something to come back with.

Ramos continued: "You think you're the only one who's lost someone dear to them? It happens every day. Lives are crushed. Hopes disappear. Thousands and thousands of thousands of people die. Every single day.

"That doesn't make your grief any less meaningful. The perspective doesn't lessen the loss. Death, no matter how often it happens, is still a terrifying concept." She took another sip from her almost-empty glass of juice. "But as a _species_, we would have died out a long time ago if everyone wrapped themselves up in their grief to the point where they were nothing more than a drain on resources. We _survive_. We go on. And at the end of the day, or the month, or the year, you can look back and see those moments where you had the opportunity to _live._"

She leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. "You're living right now because someone else took the bullet that would have hit you. Indirectly or directly. So are you going waste this time you have to make a difference and invalidate that sacrifice? Or are you going to man up and grasp the chance when you still have it?"

Ramos waited for a pregnant second before downing the last of her drink. As she stood up to leave, she paused before heading out the door. "Admiral Caradin was given authorization to form a new strike fleet. He was impressed by your performance during the liberation of Triton and it just so happens that he's low on fighter pilot recruits for the new unit. There's a try-out spot for you if you want it. Tomorrow, 0900. Hanger Bay 8B." And then she turned and left.

Joey couldn't remember how long he sat at the bar, his drink long gone and left unfilled. Hours passed with the flickering of his heavy thoughts. Eventually he got up and returned to his room for the night.

And the next day, he showed up to Hanger Bay 8B. There was a brand new Starfighter sitting there, waiting for him to try it out and show the evaluators what he could do.

It was like coming home.

* * *

**Codex Entry: DNI Section One: After Action Report (4019FX) (U)—"Liberation of Triton"**

**Date of Operation: 1.23.1347**

**Dep. of Naval Intelligence, Sec ONE**

**Authority: EO 13526**

**Records &amp; Information Div.**

.

.

.

**SECTION III – Analysis of Statistical Data**

(a) ….Losses to local military components currently immeasurable, due to fluid status of Triton Resistance members. Total casualty loss in capital city estimated of up to 33% of pre-occupation…

.

.

(d) …Over reliance on limited Resistance aerial components resulted in poor coordination between incoming TEC units and Resistance personnel. Achievement of satisfactory conditions for deployment of Third Squadron, 22 SPECNAVOP, only completed through heavy casualties for Resistance units. The hostile Advent occupational force was able to deploy est. six S-G vessels which devastated local friendly forces through bombardment until Third Squadron was able to arrive….Additional obstacles was the result of under-equipped and largely untrained local aerial forces which severely hampered ability to eliminate Advent naval...

.

.

.

(f) …..One particular exception being local Unit COSMIC THREE which was able to achieve Phase I operational objectives despite above-expected casualties in assisting Resistance aerial forces (see Personnel File: WO J. ANTONSON)….

.

.

.

**SECTION VI – Personnel Profiles**

.

.

**II. Resistance Operations**

**THAURIN, Denzel**

Occupation: Civilian, Independent cybersecurity contractor

Largely responsible for logistical and organizational successes of Triton resistance operations, his computational expertise enabled an unprecedented level of strategical mobility. De facto leader of local and global resistance operations.

Status: Killed by orbital bombardment during operation in Capital City

**GARBER, Rachel**

Occupation: Military, 1st Triton Guards Regiment

Junior officer in Triton PDF, quickly became involved with Triton resistance operations after Advent invasion. Head planner and later tactical commander of resistance ground forces during operation.

Status: Killed in action during operation near Triton Spaceport in Capital City.

**BOROUGHS, Marcus**

Occupation: Military, 4th Capital Militia Police

Long-time enlisted soldier in Triton PDF with negligible civilian occupational experience prior to invasion, became connected to resistance operations particularly in Waterside district of Capital City. Limited influence in tactical planning.

Status:_ Active _

_ Recommendation:_ Return to service in Triton PDF

**BOSELL, Adrian**

Occupation: Civilian, laborer

Leadership position with pre-invasion workers unions eventually led to active cooperation with Triton Resistance. Later responsible for tactical command in Western Industrial district of Capital City.

Status: Killed by orbital bombardment during operation

**DERVIS, Janila**

Occupation: Civilian, evidence of criminal activity pre-invasion

Former boss of local gang in Capital City North Side district. Later involved in assisting Triton militia personnel in escaping immediate post-invasion purge. Strategical planner in resistance and later co-head of tactical operations.

Status: Killed during operation near Triton Spaceport

...

**ANTONSON, Joseph**

Occupation: Military, Triton Naval PDF

SF-62 Fighter pilot in Triton PDF. Largely relegated to garrison duty prior to Advent invasion, with no notable achievements. Sole survivor of squadron during initial invasion, later heavily involved with Denzel Thaurin and Rachel Garber in primary organizational efforts of resistance. Mostly uninvolved with higher level planning in resistance operations, but fulfilled reconnaissance and intelligence gathering within urban limits. Tactical commander of aerial component of secondary operational phase. Successfully destroyed two Advent Beam Defense orbital platforms despite heavy presence of Advent forces. Largely responsible for successful coordination of TEC naval components and surviving Triton resistance ground forces.

Status: _Active_

_ Recommendation:_ Evaluation for transfer and placement into either STRIKE FLEET 10098C, 6th Fleet Group OR Dep. NavIntel Section TWO—Spec. Activities Div.

_Update:_ Active service in 45th Strike Fleet, 6th Fleet Group, Special Operations Command HQ

_(personnel files continued next page)_

* * *

**A/N:** Finally got around to letting you know what happened to the Resistance on Triton! (Yes, I stole a line from the Imitation Game).

One problem that I've encountered: I started writing this story just to plop down whatever idea I had floating around at the time, whether or not they would actually create a connected, coherent story. The result is I end up with, like, four separate story lines that become really difficult to actually work together. There are a couple half-written stories for previous POVs (the Vasari one is begging to be uploaded), but idk. Kinda wondering if I should continue this story and try to work it together or just drop it entirely.

Did you like this chapter? That's great. REVIEW.

Did you hate it? Fantastic. REVIEW.

Was it totally "meh" for you? Great! Let me know. REVIEW.

Seriously, they make my day.


	12. Chapter 12: The Aaarrrrrrrt of Diplomacy

**TEC Naval Intelligence Section One, Luna Base, 4.05.1347**

Everdeen entered the Director's office, closing the door and swiftly making her way in front of the desk.

"I need forty million credits worth of precious crystals."

The Director looked up from his holo, looking the female intelligence officer in the eye as if she was crazy.

"What."

The severe, flat tone of the director made Everdeen question her decision to brusquely charge into his office without providing some sort of justifying context. Her family was one of businessmen who built their fortunes from aggressive tactics. The intelligence officer had never really picked up on the more subtle art of diplomacy—when there was a problem, you pour money into it. And if that doesn't work, find someone else who can solve the problem and pour money into _them _instead.

"Sir," she began, "Many of our fleets operating on the Eastern borders are understrength. As you are well aware, the Vasari elements moving into nearby sectors are forcing our Navy units to stretch themselves even thinner."

"Yes, yes," said the director, massaging his weary, lined forehead. The stress of his high station was physically visible on the man's face. "Until the new fleets are finished in the Sol shipyards, the Navy was going to augment their Eastern forces with more defensive structures. I don't see how this connects to your request for that _absurd _amount of money."

Everdeen pulled a paper folder out from behind her and slapped it onto the desk.

The director slowly looked down at the folder, and then back up at her. "I hate it when you do that," he sighed as he reached for the documents.

"Understood, sir," said Everdeen, getting her 'sales pitch' tone ready, "But I think we have an…alternative force that we can count on to help out with the Eastern theater."

The director flipped through the documents, running his eyes over the words and examining the photographs. He frowned at one, flipping back and reading it more carefully.

The intelligence officer clasped her hands behind her back. "I think that this is an asset which can make a significant difference."

The director laid the documents back down and gave her an even stare.

"Pirates." It was a matter-of-fact statement.

"Mercenaries," she retorted.

"_Pirates_," the director insisted.

"Oh all right. Pirates. Yes. They're what I had in mind."

"You wish for us to employ some of the most cutthroat beings in the galaxy, have us _work alongside them_, and to _pay _them?"

"I do not wish for. I recommend. And we wouldn't be working alongside them. All we would do is set a bounty or a target. It's not like we'd provide intelligence assistance beyond precisely what is necessary," said Everdeen.

"That doesn't make it any better," said the director, "Everdeen…how many of our planets have been raided by pirates? How many freight ships have been lost? How many men and women of the TEC ambushed?"

Everdeen was silent.

The overworked intelligence director continued. "That's exactly it. We _don't know_. Pirates slaughter civilian, military, human and Vasari alike. They've plagued our systems long enough. To have us…encourage and _employ _them…how well do you think this is going to go over with the Senior Director?"

"Sir, I.." Everdeen cleared her throat, "Director Moldec, I understand how you feel. Believe me, this is not a light suggestion. But I'd like you to consider something."

Director Moldec looked back, waiting for her to continue.

"We've been dealing with pirates for far longer than we've dealt with the Vasari. Some of the largest pirate outfits have been operating from their bases for decades. Yet, we've never been able to completely destroy them. Ever. The pirate bases are too well-hidden, too well-protected, and too unprofitable for us to exert a protracted effort to eliminate them.

"With this in mind, would it be better for them to continue their modus operandi—attacking anyone and anything—or for us to provide some…_structural incentive _and direct their energy towards a more appropriate target?"

The director huffed a grim, humorless laugh. " 'Structural incentive'. A bribe, you mean to say."

"A _bounty_," Everdeen corrected. "Set a bounty against the Vasari, or the Advent. Hell, pay the pirates to attack both of them. So long as it gives our fleets some breathing room."

"You're trying to organize a very chaotic force, here. What gives you any reason to believe that the pirates wouldn't just take our money and turn against us?"

"Because they're businessmen, sir. They're not as chaotic as you might think. They know not to bite the hand that feeds them."

"And _how_," said the director harshly, "would you know that?"

Everdeen did not flinch, merely blinked and responded in a steady manner. "I have friends in Section Two, the Internal Directory. Believe it or not, interactions with shady figures happens all the time. It's only a matter of knowing the right person to get the correct contacts."

Director Moldec stood up and slowly began to pace, again pushing a weary hand through his sparse hair. "The folks at SecTwo do their job. We, on the other hand, do not have as much liberty to engage in side activities. There are certain…moral implications that make your suggestion an unsavory one."

"Moral implications, sir?"

The director turned towards her. "Those who engage in pirate activities are liable to be sentenced to life in prison under the Trade Order's laws. For good reason. They knowingly and deliberately kill noncombatants. Who are we to endorse them to use that power, even against the enemy?"

"With all due respect, the Trade Order's laws aren't exactly upheld to the tee anymore. Nor are they respected by the enemy. Noncombatants have died by the billions in the past twenty years." Everdeen was calm. She knew she was treading on dangerous territory here, but she could feel that Director Moldec had already internally agreed with her, he just needed some prodding to make the verbal affirmation.

The intelligence director silently stewed on this for a long minute. Everdeen began to feel uncomfortable from having to hold such a sharp, military stance for so long. She was about to subtly adjust herself when the director spoke up again:

"All right." He exhaled a weighted breath. "This will have to receive confirmation from the Senior Director and Naval Command, but consider your recommendation endorsed."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir. Naval Command, sir?"

"Forty million credits are going to have to come from somewhere. There's no way that we could keep this under the wraps. Naval Command will have to give their affirmation for this endeavor." The director made his way back to his desk and sat down. "I'll pass your report and recommendation up the chain, with my own endorsement. You'll most likely be working closely with whichever bureaucrat gets the job of negotiating with these pirates, so I'll keep you informed."

"Understood. Thank you sir." Everdeen could tell the signs of an unspoken dismissal, so she saluted and turned to leave.

"Actually," said the director, stopping Everdeen mid-step. "I assume you have a specific pirate band in mind." She nodded. "In that case, I would be interested in speaking personally with their leader. When do you think you can put us in contact?"

"As a matter of fact," said Everdeen, taking out her holo and returning to the director's desk, "I have the number right here. I can give you a secure connection right now."

The director gave her a small nod and Everdeen set off to setting up the connection. Quiet static filled the room for a moment before a loud clicking noise. Everdeen pulled the holo towards the director, signaling for him that the connection was clear.

The intelligence director cleared his throat. "Hello? This is Director Moldec, Naval Intelligence, Section One. To whom am I speaking?"

There was silence before a boisterous and gravelly voice responded.

_"Yar har har, mi matey! This here is Jaaaarvis, of Jarvis' Jackals. What can I do for you, Director?"_

The director pulled the holo down for a moment, looking at Everdeen. He did not speak, but his eyes conveyed his message. What on Earth have we gotten ourselves into?

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you all for reading! And yes, for now I think I will continue with this story and try and write myself out the hole that I've put myself.

Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of this new chapter! :D Till next time


	13. Chapter 13: The Warlord

**A/N: **Thanks for all the hits and for the reviews! This is the longest chapter I've posted. Note: 100% more aliens in this update. You might want to re-read Chapter 5 for a refresher of the context.

Enjoy!

* * *

**-Warlord Vacek Tu'Chur—**

**Aboard the **_**Vaekus, **_**flagship of the Saevus Advance Fleet, 8.15.1347**

_-A distant reminiscence-_

"Another buoy has recently been silenced. This one was dropped only forty-six cycles ago. Their pace is quickening."

"Why can't we escape?" I ask.

"We _can_ escape. We just haven't. Not yet."

"So how can we escape?"

"Through courage. Determination. Pragmatism and intelligence. And above all, never experiencing failure."

"So, no mistakes?"

"Not a single one," he says. "Victory at any cost."

He stands up. "Up, young one. The time for rest is over."

"But my wrist is still sprained from last week!"

"Movement inspires healing. Staying still is death." He gestures forcefully. "Up. This kata will not master itself."

I get up. And I do not leave the training room that day until another three bones are broken.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Warlord, we are nearing the Hackevius facility now. Thirty minutes until exit from phase space."

The professional voice jostled me from the memory. I sat up in the cot, glancing over to the silhouette of my aide standing in the doorway. "Thank you, Bashkal. I will make my way to the CC in a few minutes."

Lieutenant Bashkal saluted, presenting a horizontal slash across his breastplate, before leaving me alone to my thoughts.

It had been years since I had thought of my old teacher, Lvorak. Even in my adolescence, around the time that we had begun the invasion of Trader space, Lvorak was the veteran warrior who stayed in the rear guard in order to mentor me when I was practically still a mewling child. My father had pulled the necessary strings and arranged that unusual deployment for my benefit. My family name, Tu'chur, has a lot of connections and influence.

_Had_ a lot of connections.

I washed my hands in cold, metallic water and dry them with a sharply bristled towel. Then I dressed, preparing each piece of my immaculately polished uniform for wear. No matter how spartan a commander's quarters may be, a warrior must always look the part of his office.

Lvorak had taught that lesson to me. At the time I thought it was just another excuse to punish me for having a wrinkled tunic. Now I understand what he was preparing me for. A high-ranking soldier is always being watched and evaluated. And a Warlord cannot seem to be sloppy, casual, or laidback. After all, it's not just one's own soldiers and subordinates that are watching you.

Ten minutes later, I entered the command bridge which was bustling with activity. Bashkal, my aide, saluted as did the other officers on deck. There was one notable exception: a Vasari clad in black and purple armor who stood off to the side, his eyes only briefly glancing over to me before returning to his holo.

Sentinel Kapchur Da'sev. Special Council Observer. Member of the Arm of the Council. And, in the coarse words of my first officer, an 'arrogant piece of shit'.

I internally sighed. Sentinel Da'sev was here, ostensibly, as an objective observer of my mission. In reality, I knew that the special operative was deployed to achieve some other purpose for the Council. The sentinel's special status meant that, at any time, he could command my ships and my soldiers, interfering with _my _operation for whatever side-purpose the Council was interested in.

Suffice to say, Da'sev and I did not have the best of relationships.

I took my seat at the command bridge. We were hurtling across the spectral plane, racing to respond to a distress signal from a remote mining operation in an asteroid field. The Hackevius facility was strategically important, providing a crucial supply of precious metals necessary in ship construction.

There was no intelligence on what was threatening the Hackevius facility, but I erred on the side of caution and brought two entire squadrons with me and personally led with the _Vaekus_—a top of the line carrier and the flagship of the fleet. I had a feeling that this would become more than just a search and rescue operation, and my hunch was further confirmed when I received notice that a Sentinel of the Arm of the Council would be observing.

The golden tunnel of phase space abruptly came to a stop as we lurched out of the jump.

An image of pure destruction greeted us.

What should have been a massive mining facility nestled between the mineral fields was instead a mass of slowly drifting debris. My command staff led out collective murmurs of surprise and dismay.

"Void take us…" cursed my first officer.

I did not let my own surprise show. "First Officer Teuric! Amplify this image and broadcast it to the rest of the fleet. Send a few frigates to sweep the outer rim areas. The _Vaekus _shall proceed forward to within forty kilometers of the facility."

Our powerful carrier began to slowly turn and then proceed closer to the Hackevius facility. The rest of the squadrons began to fan out, pinging for any lifeforms in the mass of debris.

"Warlord Tu'Chur!" the communications officer got my attention, "Our lead frigates report signs of life and activity in the remains of the facility. They are asking for permission to approach."

"Negative," I responded. "Have them continue their course on the perimeter. We'll send out starcraft and lifeboats once the _Vaekus _is close enough. Additionally, attempt to get an EMS signal and connect with it. See if we can communicate with the survivors."

Sentinel Da'Sev approached, clearing his throat to make his presence acknowledged. "Warlord Tu'Chur, it would be foolish to directly proceed close to the facility. You risk being ambushed if there are any hostile forces hiding."

"Sentinel," I said in a gruff tone, "if there were any combat-class vessels in there, our phase sensors would have picked them up already. And we received the distress signals almost -fifteen hours ago—any survivors left are most likely running low on power. I do not want to spend the next three hours slowly edging ourselves to the range that our lifeboats can be launched."

Da'Sev did not respond, opting to making a "hrmph" noise and turn his attention to the bridge displays.

Several minutes later, a blip came up on the EMS sensors. "Signal found!" said the comm officer.

"Attempt contact," I commanded.

"To any surviving Vasari forces in the area, this is the _Vaekus_, flagship of the Saevus Advance Fleet. Hackevius Facility, do you acknowledge?" The comm officer repeated the hail several times before a harried voice tinged with relief burst over the connection in response.

"_Yes! This is the mining freighter Jukal! Thank the Blessed you're here."_

I gestured to the comm officer, signaling him to transfer the connection to me. "Mining freighter _Jukal_, this is Warlord Tu'chur of the _Vaekus_. What's your status?"

"_My lord!" _choked out the voice. "_Our thrusters are shot and our reactors only have enough power to maintain minimal life support. If you're within range, you should be able to see our beacon on your sensors. We have wounded aboard."_

I looked over at the sensors technician, who indeed was now tracking a very weak signal that was the mining freighter's beacon. "Yes, we see you now. We're sending over a pickup. Be ready to coordinate and evacuate your vessel."

"_Yes, we'll do so. Thank you!" _

I transferred the connection back over to the comm officer. "Get the head technician on the line. Have him send over a team of diggers to the remains of the facility and see if they can access the Hackevius' logs."

Looking around the command bridge, the faces of all the personnel on deck reflected the same thoughts as mine. _How did this happen?_

There was one exception. The Sentinel. Da'sev did not look the slightest perturbed, only making a few notes on his holo with an impassive face. He was either the calmest individual I had ever met, or he had already expected the Hackevius facility to be smashed to pieces.

I did not want to think too long on the implications of the latter.

* * *

Less than an hour later, the crew of the surviving mining freighter had been taken aboard the _Vaekus _and received proper medical attention. In front of me stood the captain of the civilian vessel.

"It was pirates, my lord," said the captain.

Murmurs came from the command bridge.

"Impossible," said Teuric, "A pirate raid large enough to destroy an entire facility?"

"I know what I saw," said the captain, with a tone of defensiveness, "Those were pirate starships. Dozens of dozens of them."

"The first officer meant no offense, captain," I said, "Please, could you recount to us what exactly happened?"

"I—yes, my lord," the Vasari captain took a moment to compose himself. "We were just getting ready to cast off from the docking bays. It was a busy time for the mining facility—a lot of freighters picking up the refined ore, you know? There were only a few combat frigates hanging around to give protection, but we didn't pay that no mind. It's not like we ever needed them before.

"Then, the next thing we know, our sensors were getting bombarded with new contacts. Our ship computer had no idea what kind of vessels were coming at us, and we only got about a minute of warning before they entered the system. But we could see that they were pirates once they came into view. The markings, the types of ships—we've had to deal with these types before. Just…never before on such a scale. Our freighters and frigates were getting cut up left and right. It was over before it began.

"We only managed to make it because the docking bay provided some cover for us. We almost didn't just from the sheer amount of fire that was pouring in every direction. Don't know how they missed us. Shot the hell out of our engines, and then they directed their fire onto the facility itself. Within an hour, they had destroyed the whole thing. I don't even know why they would do that…pirates usually don't stick around long enough to cause so much structural damage. But as soon as they finished up with that, they took off. Just like that. Gone. They didn't even try to crack open the hulls of some of the freighters for loot. It was like they were just trying to cause as much chaos as possible."

The room stewed on this piece of unwelcome news. An entire mining facility, reduced to scrap by a massive pirate raid. It seemed less like a regular bandit incursion and more like a surgical strike to put pressure on the Vasari holdings in the sector. Perhaps it was a TEC naval operation, disguised as pirates? But why would the TEC even bother to hide themselves? Besides that, I knew the composition of the TEC fleets on the nearby frontline sectors—their admirals most likely would not take the risk of stretching themselves so thinly to make a raid into Vasari space.

So if those _were _pirates, it means that their numbers were growing significantly. Enough to brush aside normal Vasari convoy protection details as if they were flies. This was disturbing news.

"Thank you, captain," I said, "You may return to your crew."

"My lord," the captain bowed and left the bridge.

"Warlord Tu'chur." I turned. It was Bashkal, at the comm station. "The team of diggers found something that they'd like to report."

I hurried over, leaning over the station and opening up the channel. "Yes? Who is on the line? What do you have for me?"

"_My lord, this is Senior Engineer Havask. Miraculously, there was an entire holo terminal that was still intact in the remains of the facility. We broke through the encryption protocols fairly easily, but then we encountered some issues."_

"And?"

"_There was a piece of well-hidden malware operating in the background, corrupting the data of all the recent logs and breaking through the security of the individual files. We only just managed to get rid of it in time to salvage some of the holo's data. Another twenty minutes and there would have been nothing left."_

At this point, First Officer Teuric joined in. "Someone tried to corrupt the log data from the inside? Why would the pirates do that? Why not just destroy the terminal completely?"

I responded, "Most major orbital facilities send back packets of their collected data to the main hub on a regular basis, to prevent a complete loss of data if disaster happens. The encryption on the data can be unlocked by the holder of the encryption key on the sender's end. In this case, it seems that the pirates knew about this protocol and didn't want to risk someone outside of the facility knowing the data encryption key. So, instead they decided to actively corrupt the data through the network. It's not a bad idea—we were just lucky that we hurried and responded to the distress hails in time."

I turned back to the comm station. "Havask, what did you find the data you were able to recover?"

"_Apparently some of the facility sensors were still online in the aftermath of the attack. They were able to pick up and log several readings of the exhaust trails and coordinates of the exiting pirate ships. We can't really make heads or tails about it, but I can send over the data for the shipboard analysis team." _

"This is a great find, Havask. Do send it over. Finish up your recovery sweep and head on back. Vacek Tu'chur out."

I swiveled around, preparing to make my way to the command station. "I want that data analyzed as swiftly as possible. The sooner we get on the move, the better.

"My lord?" said Bashkal. "What exactly should we doing?"

I turned a steely gaze towards him. "I think that is obvious, Lieutenant. We're going after these bastards."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the coordinates danced across my holo. The analysis team had received the data and decrypted it with their own systems in record time. I made a mental note to commend them for their efficiency at a later time.

"XV4501-A50". I did not recognize the name of the system, but I was familiar with its contextual location as I consulted the starmap.

Turning to the helmsman, I gave a nod and leaned back in my chair. The entire carrier began to slowly move away from the debris of the Hackevius facility and towards the edge of the gravity well.

It must have been an impressive sight; over fifty combat vessels of varying class and size making their way as one unit. The Saevus Advance Fleet had a destination and was on the move. A small line of Jikara scout ships fanned out, followed by a vanguard of the sleak but powerful Ravastra frigates. The heavy firepower of the fleet backed them up, a cadre of the menacing Skarovas combat cruisers. I had a soft spot for the durable heavy cruisers, having commanded one for some time in my early career. Several lines of long range, torpedo wielding frigates advanced from behind.

The _Vaekus_, my Skirantra-class carrier followed, surrounded by pairs of support cruisers and anti-strike craft frigates. With us was the main meat of the Advance fleet: a set of smaller Lasurak-class light carriers. The Starfighters and bombers aboard were vicious and deadly, and their weapons would tear through any pirate's armor with ease.

It was if sheer power was radiating off of the armed fleet as we sallied forth to enact our righteous revenge.

With our superior phase drives, we should be able to catch up with the retreating pirates in no time. We would be able to jump, scan for exhaust readings, and follow the trail all the way to the treacherous ships.

"Prepare for phase jump," I said.

The carrier slightly jolted, but that was the only physical hint that the phase drives had been activated. Golden rays opened up in the vacuum in front of the ships with mechanical efficiency, showing off the efforts of generations of Vasari who labored to improve our phase drive technology. The golden rays whirled, forming a disc which spun faster and faster.

Then, the phase drives deep inside the carrier reached the apex of their power, transferring all of the prepared energy into a massive _push _forward, launching us across space.

The command center crew silently went about their duties. Our phase drives would be able to cover the unfathomable distances of space within an hour. However, the anticipation and tension was heavy in the room.

I spotted a flash of purple armor in my peripheral vision and turned around. Sentinel Da'sev, still clad in his ceremonial uniform, had made his way towards me. I mentally groaned, waiting for the confrontation that would inevitably occur in our brief interactions.

"I just wanted to remind you, Warlord, of where the boundaries of your jurisdiction lie," he said.

"Believe me, Sentinel," I responded with disdain, "I know _exactly _what my office entails. Going after a band of marauding pirates is well within my authority."

"Nonetheless, the minute that you step outside the limits of your regional sector, you have _no _authority. You couldn't even order your comm officer to send a text to a nearby ship—you'd have to _ask_," Da'sev insisted.

"I know that," I replied dismissively, "The physical limits are of no concern to me—we are well within the boundary of my jurisdiction. Even if we end up chasing these pirates for quite some time, as long as we're careful about it, we'll stay within those boundaries. Don't get carried away with yourself."

Da'sev's jaw tightened, ever so slightly, before he relaxed and came back with an almost casual comment. "Just remember, while we are within your sector, I can command your troops and ships but I cannot order _you _to do anything." Then his voice hardened as he looked me in the eye. "However, if we exit your sector, your special status is worth nothing. I could order you to kill yourself and you would have to obey lest be branded as a traitor and a failure."

My temper flared. What was he trying to prove? "Completely understood, Sentinel. Your will is the Council's will and all that mind-numbing rhetoric. But is that really true? Which Council faction sent you here? Are you really here on behalf of _all _nine members of the Vasari Council? Or is this more of a…personal visit?" I returned the glare, well aware that some of the officers in the CC were discreetly paying attention to the heated exchange.

Da'sev gave a rueful grin, almost cruel in its appearance. "You are a smart one. I can see why Councilman Narak chose to endorse you all those months ago. You certainly owe a lot to him and his allies, don't you?"

I gritted my teeth. I never chose to become involved in the politicized dealings and underhanded intrigue which plagued the upper levels of Vasari government. But Narak had spotted me as a potential recruit to plant within the hierarchy of the Vasari military and I had been sucked in, earning myself allies and bloodthirsty enemies as a result.

A Sentinel of the Arm of the Council was the most dangerous threat that I had yet encountered. I could maintain a tenuous balance with him as long as we were within my regional authority, but he would be receiving a dangerous advantage if we stepped outside. He obviously owed his loyalties to someone specific on the Council, most likely one of Narak's opponents.

"Kal'chev or Zakal?" I asked, listing off the two most possible suspects on the Council.

Da'sev just grinned even wider. "_Very _good. I'll have you know that I have pleasant dealings with _all_ members of the Council. But saying anything more would be a little too telling, wouldn't it?"

He marched off, leaving me in a pit of simmering anger. I clenched my fists and glared at his retreating back. He was a reminder of the political forces which were beyond me and certainly beyond my interests. I always thought of myself as a simple warrior, but he was an expression of the political intrigue that I was being dragged into.

Both Kal'chev and Zakal were some of the most orthodox members of the Council. Tradition and adherence to the ancient ways were paramount to both of them, although Zakal commanded more influence among the military and Kal'chev had allies among the high nobility.

To both of them, my appointment as Warlord at my relatively young age was an unprecedented breach of tradition. Especially when put under the banner of Councilman Narak, I represented a newer generation of warriors who had been born around the time of Contact with the Traders. Narak was an agitator for a change in direction, for the Vasari Empire to change its mentality towards establishing a more permanent status in this galactic sector.

And with each passing cycle, the breach between the traditionalists led by Zakal and Kal'chev and the younger reformers led by Narak only grew wider. With each strike of political capital and influence, the fortunes and careers of high ranking officers and Warlords rose and fell.

I was not surprised to see that an operative of the Arm had been sent as an "observer" for me. Kal'chev had always been cordial towards me, but I knew that my family line had been feuding with his for several generations—the overt hostility between the two lines was on hold with the start of violence with the Traders. Zakal, on the other hand, saw me as a direct threat to his influence in the military, particularly among the other Warlords. He would certainly be one to actively seek my downfall. The fact that Sentinel Da'sev was not worried at all by my epiphany of the true purpose behind his presence meant that there was something much larger in store for us all.

"My lord," said Teuric, standing a bit away and holding a holo. "We'll be reaching our destination in thirty minutes."

I turned my attention away from the malicious intentions of the Sentinel. "Acknowledged. Thank you," I said, turning my attention back to the displays. I had a job to do.

* * *

"Sixty seconds, my lord," said the helmsman.

We were almost there. I was still thinking back to my interactions with the Arm operative. Da'sev was off to side, as usual, maintaining an aloof distance away from the actions of the command crew.

"Teuric," I beckoned to the first officer, "Have all vessels prepare their shields."

"My lord?" Teuric questioned.

"Just to be safe," I said. I glanced over at Da'sev. "Can't hurt to take an extra precaution."

Teuric frowned, but saluted and sent out the order.

"Bashkal," I said. My aide hurried over. "Are the pilots at their ships?"

"Yes, Warlord Tu'chur. All fighters and bombers are fueled and ready to go."

"Excellent. Good work." I turned back to the displays. An uneasiness was eating away at me, brought about by the realization of the political motivation behind the Sentinel's presence.

The helmsman spoke up again. "Ten seconds!"

Nevertheless, I would be prepared for whatever faced us on the other side.

But as I braced myself for the exit from phase space, a glitch jolted through the entire ship. Stations buzzed, sparks flying. The golden tunnel of phase space glared an angry red and the carrier lurched forward, not making its exit from the jump.

Technicians were shouting out in surprise. My displays filled with static and I shouted, "What the hell is going on?!"

"My lord!" yelled a navy tech, "The phase drive isn't cooperating and I'm getting no response from the reactors. It's like something's overridden the normal protocols!"

The chaos only grew. I could hear the hull of the ship creaking from the strain of passing through phase space without the proper jump coordination. I had no idea what the status of the rest of the fleet was, but I could assume they were experiencing something similar.

"Bashkal!" I yelled for my aide. "Get on the comm with the navigation team and find out what's going on!"

My mind was racing. Something was hijacking the ship systems. It couldn't be from an outside source; our external defenses were state of the art and no one would be able to get a bead on us as we jumped through phase space anyways. So it was something attacking from the inside. A virus, or maybe a malicious program. Cursing, I ran through anything that could have been installed that could contain such a thing. Internal sabotage, perhaps?

Then it dawned on me. The data logs from the Hackevius Facility.

The words of the engineer came back to me: "_There was a piece of well-hidden malware operating in the background. We only just managed to get rid of it in time to salvage some of the holo's data."_

They hadn't been able to eliminate all of it, it seems. This was no ordinary pirate attack. This was an ambush, and our retrieval of the facility data was the first step to closing the trap.

"Teuric!" I shouted. "Teuric! Where in the Void are you?"

The harried first officer ran over, stumbling as the carrier treacherously shook. "I'm here, Vacek!"

"It was the log data! From the Hackevius Facility! There's an internal program running that's hijacking our shipboard computers!"

The first officer frowned and then his eyes widened as he understood my logic. He cursed. "I'll get on the line with the system analysis team—maybe they can get rid of it!"

I nodded, turning to shout out more orders. This was a dangerous situation—if we stayed in phase space for longer than our ship reactors had prepared themselves for, the entire vessel was liable to explode from the strain. But then I noticed a peculiar sight.

Sentinel Da'sev, calmly holding on to some emergency straps and seated on a chair to the side of the command center.

Not afraid in the slightest. He knew what our ultimate destination was.

Da'sev always struck me as pompous and self-inflated, very satisfied with his own status. He wouldn't be one to sacrifice himself for something as petty as striking down a relatively new Warlord.

"Teuric," I called back the first officer who looked up from the comm. "Have the team try to isolate and eliminate the program as soon as possible. But get reports from all sectors of the ship and send them to my console."

I stood up and raised my voice, addressing the entire command crew. "Calm down everyone! We're getting through this alive. Stick to your stations and don't panic!"

Seeing that I had gotten their attention, I clicked on the intercom to address the whole ship. "We are the some of the best of the entire Vasari navy. Stay calm. Remember your training. None of us are going to die just yet. You were handpicked for this post, so I'll be damned if you run around headlessly every time you encounter something unexpected!"

My words were crude and to the point, but they served their purpose. The chaos died down. And as if the Gods themselves had taken it upon them to assist my timing, the carrier violently exited phase space at that precise moment.

I was thrown forward by the sudden stop, slamming my chest against the console. I cursed and stood back up.

"Someone give me a status check on the rest of the fleet! And someone _else _give me a report on our systems."

A tech got my attention. "Sir! We're all here. No losses in the two squadrons of the fleet. A little banged up, but that's all."

"Get them to move back into formation, now!" I shouted.

Teuric rushed over. "My lord, the shield generators were slightly damaged. No way for them to run at full capacity for very long. And our hull is at an estimated 80% strength. No breaches though."

I breathed a sigh of relief. But when I opened my eyes, I saw on the display what system we had been launched into.

There was a dwarf planet, off in the distance. Quite a few orbital structures were around it, showing that this was a colonized and developed location.

There was a pirate flotilla, swarming all over the planet.

If fire could manifest in space, I would expect all of those structures to be burning.

"Navigation," I directed, "Where are we?"

In response, a starmap opened up on my console. It had relevant sectors and star systems based on separate jurisdictions, estimated front lines, et cetera.

We were in Advent space. At least two jumps behind the front lines. And there was a pirate flotilla, waiting for us.

There was enough distance between us and the enemy. We had time to prepare for when they caught sight of us.

"Get the analysis team on the line. Have them check the exhaust trails logged by the Hackevius facility and those of the pirates facing us right now. Do they match?" I asked. "If our sensors are still intact, someone get an estimate of the size and disposition of their forces."

A voice crackled over the comm. "_My lord, we checked the logs. They match. It's the same pirate group."_

A tech shouted from his station. "Enemy force estimated to be around eighty vessels, all combat capable. Exact classes unknown."

Eighty vessels. I had fifty with me, some of which were only support ships with only minimal combat capabilities. All of us had slight damages from the hijacked phase jump. Here in front of me were the perpetrators of the attack on the Hackevius Facility, within Advent space. Our hijacked phase jump had still brought us to our quarry—and I wondered what the purpose for that malicious program was if our fleet was still able to wipe the floor with the pirate forces after exiting the jump.

"Sir," asked the first officer, "What are your orders for the rest of the fleet?"

I paused, gazing at the displays for a tense moment before turning to him. "Take up battle stations."

* * *

"_Aaaaaaarrr! New blood, fresh for the taking! Your heads will be mounted on a wall by the end of this!"_

I deigned not to respond to the coarse hail from the enemy.

The bloated pirates, fat on the destruction they had dealt on the helpless Advent planet, slowly began to turn towards us in an undisciplined formation. Opposite them, eating up the expanse of space, were the Vasari forces. Combat frigates took up the front with support cruisers interspersed behind the line. The phase missile-toting LRFs took up the line behind them, ready to launch the first salvo. Fighters and bombers exited their hanger bays, zipping in between the larger ships but staying within ranger of their carriers. The _Vaekus _opened up its bays, letting its squadrons loose.

The pirates began to accelerate, rushing forward at the new enemy. The Vasari slowed themselves, waiting for the hostile pirates to come closer.

Then, with a single command from my console, our hordes of strike craft surged forward. Turbo lasers and phase missiles were unleashed on the pirate flotilla, concentrating their fire on specific targets sent from their carriers.

The battle was ours from the start.

Phase missiles which negated ship shields were launched in several volleys that disrupted the pirate formations. Even as the vanguard of combat frigates and cruisers accelerated to close range to engage, the LRFs moved to a higher plane within the three dimensional space, letting themselves fire down at the pirates from a better angle and avoid friendly fire. Our support cruisers stuck close behind the wall of Vasari lasers and titanium, regenerating shields, assisting with targeting, and launching waves of malicious programs and nanites to sow discord amongst the pirates.

All throughout, the miniscule strike craft slashed through the lines, letting loose vicious fire which shattered shields and hulls and escaping before the pirate flak frigates could respond.

"Helsman!" I shouted. "Move the _Vaekus _in."

Batteries of lasers and plasma opened up from the ports of the Skirantra carrier, punching right through the poorer alloys of the pirate ships. We pressed forward, receiving some casualties as several of our combat frigates began to crumble under the sustained enemy fire. But we were giving more than we got, cracking through and eliminating the pirate ships with the mechanical efficiency of focus fire.

The entire exchange only lasted around twenty minutes before the pirates began to break, fleeing to the edge of the sector.

"Send the strike craft after them. Try to cut down as many as possible."

I leaned back, allowing myself to relax some of the coiled tension as the main battle finished.

I gestured to one of the junior officers. "Keep up with scanning the system. We need to make sure there isn't another force hiding."

The dwarf planet was in front of us. This was Advent territory, for sure. The broken remnants of the orbital structures all fit the artistic and elegant architecture of the zealous technophiles. They had suffered an even worse pirate attack than us. This was a colonized planet. I could see the craters and impact spots on the planet surface, even from our distance. What few population centers there were, they had all been literally wiped off the face of the globe.

"My lord," a voice said. I turned. It was Bashkal, a rumpled uniform the only sign of the battle we had just gone through. "Reports are in from the rest of the fleet. Heavy losses among the strike fighters. The carriers are manufacturing replacements as we speak. Eight ships lost, with six more with crippling damages."

I rubbed a weary hand across my jaw. "Estimates on total loss of life?"

"Around a thousand, my lord."

A thousand sailors, technicians, and marines lost. I would mourn them later. They were acceptable losses for routing an entire pirate flotilla.

"Get an analysis team on the damaged ships. If they can be repaired in a quick fashion, then do so. If not, transfer the surviving crew to the other ships. I'd like to get out of here within the next few hours," I said. I did not forget that we were still deep in Advent space.

Bashkal saluted and walked off to carry out the order.

I slowly stood up, brushing down my uniform. Wrinkled and sweaty, but no one would notice.

I looked through an observation port. The newly created carcasses of dozens of ships floated aimlessly. Off in the distance, I could see some pieces hurtling off, carried by the impact velocity of the weapons fire which had targeted it. Though I would not be able to pick them out, I imagined the thousands of frozen bodies which decorated the spacial plane. Some wrecks were still blinking, their reactors and thrusters dotting the starry canvas with the grim sight of fading green exhaust.

A brief instance of empathy hit me. There were still people out there, stuck in their disabled vessels and listing off to a slow death as their life support failed. I could save them. There was nothing in the Warrior Code which prevented the taking of prisoners. I almost turned and called to the First Officer to ask for lifeboats and shuttles of marines to be sent to the enemy ships which still had hull integrity.

But I quashed the startling moment of weakness. I was a Vasari warlord. Though not stated verbatim, it was _tradition _to be ruthless. These were pirates, the very people who had gone out of their way to wreak havoc on _my _civilian facilities. There would be no mercy.

Even more so, I had to show to the crew that I was not weak. The Saevus Advance had just cleaved a larger enemy force into pieces—for me to extend the hand of hope towards the surviving pirates would be to ruin any respect I had gained amongst my captains. No, I had to show them that my young age did not bring the extra baggage of unnecessary sentimentality to an enemy force.

Still, a slow death by asphyxiation was not something I would wish on anyone.

"First Officer Teuric."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Have the cruisers concentrate their fire on any remaining disabled pirate ships with hull integrity. Let's end their misery."

"Yes, my lord," Teuric was quick and professional about relaying the orders. "Skarovas Cruisers _Theylak, Kalvor, _and _Hurask,_ mark and destroy any remaining enemy ships containing life forms in the surrounding area. Watch your fire."

I turned away from the observation port, leaving the grisly business to be done by my subordinates.

Some time later, the fleet had been reassembled. The strike craft had returned to their carriers and the Saevus Advance Fleet prepared to leave to the edge of the gravity well to make a perilous journey back to friendly lines.

A warning which burst over the sensors of the _Vaekus _interrupted that plan, however.

"Warlord Tu'chur!" shouted a technician. "Incoming contacts from bearing Zeta 009, 780, 130! There's a lot of them, sir."

I internally groaned. These must be Advent forces, finally responding to the pirate attack on their dwarf planet. "All ships, take to battle stations and take up formation! However, do _not _open fire unless I explicitly give the order!"

Advent ships jumped in from the far side of the gravity well. The silvery vessels slowly began to advance towards us. It must have been an entire fleet, led by a Capital Battlecruiser.

I was about to order the fleet to take to attack formations, when another thought came to me.

We had a decent shot of winning a battle with these aliens, but not without significant casualties. And no matter the outcome, we would still have to retreat from the system and head back to my territory.

What if they saw us not as enemy forces encroaching on their ruined planet, but instead as a group of Vasari ships which had simply been in the wrong place at the right time and had destroyed the aggressor pirate ships?

The Vasari had never attempted diplomacy with the Advent. I was willing to change that track record.

I looked at the communications officer, a junior commandant by the name of Varlaek.

"Third Commandant Varlaek!"

"Y-yes? My lord?" Varlaek seemed startled at being addressed by name.

"Open up a communications channel beamed towards the incoming Advent forces."

Varlaek's mouth opened, then he closed it, opting to acknowledge the unconventional order and follow his professional training. "Right away, my lord."

"Someone get a translation program operating, now! I'd rather not pantomime with a talking cloud for the next thirty minutes." I referred to the airy, almost wisp-like manner of Advent speech that contrasted greatly with our gravelly, subvocal speech.

First Officer Teuric looked at me curiously, beginning to approach. "Warlord Tu'chur…we're going to make contact with the Advent?"

"Protocol be damned, First Officer," I responded, "We have a shot at getting out of this situation without any more casualties." I looked him in the eye. Teuric's visage was crossed with confusion and a hesitation, as if he was holding back his instinctual reactions to hear me out.

"I owe it to the men to at least try," I finished with confidence. Teuric stood silently for a moment, before bowing his head in deference.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked. Such a blunt question under normal circumstances would be terms for punishment for insubordination. But I owed it to him to at least reveal my thoughts—not as a commander to a subordinate, but from a comrade to a comrade.

"Not completely." I replied honestly. "Keep the pilots ready at their birds. But we'll find out if diplomacy is possible."

"Warlord!"

It was Sentinel Da'sev, getting up from his seat at the side of the command center for the first time since the phase jump.

"What is it, Sentinel?" I almost growled at the interruption.

"I must object. It would be a tribunal offense to attempt contact with the enemy!" Da'sev harshly growled back. He stood for a confrontation, his shoulders squared and arms tensed. His right arm drifted to the electric cord holstered on his hip armor.

"It would also be a tribunal offense to lose half a fleet in a day without any territory gained to show for it," I said. I turned my head to Varlaek at the comm station, "Send out the ship code for 'friendly forces' towards the Advent and communicate to the fleet to halt all movement."

Varlaek's hands were on the console when Da'sev's harsh voice interrupted him.

"Belay that order! Officer, I order you to signal the fleet to open fire on the Advent."

"Varlaek!" I shouted. Varlaek turned to me, his face mixed with indecision. "Do not follow the Sentinel's directives."

"As Sentinel of the Arm of the Council, I am the paramount authority here," said Da'sev, his voice building the tense atmosphere. "I order you to open fire on the Advent!"

Varlaek still did not move, his three fingered hands opening and clenching. "I…I'm sorry," he said in a weak voice. The comm officer pressed several keys on the console.

Text flashed on my screen: _Signal sent—Friendly Forces, Do Not Engage. _

I saw with relief as the Advent forces slowly began to slow their advance, coming to a stop on the other side of the dwarf planet. I breathed and gave a nod of gratitude to the flustered comm officer.

"This is treason!" shouted the Sentinel. He gestured forcefully to Teuric, standing to the side. "First Officer Teuric! Call the marines. Have them relieve Warlord Tu'chur from command and arrest any officer who follows him."

"Teuric," I said, quietly. My first officer looked at me. "Sentinel Da'sev is not acting in the interests of the Council or of the Vasari people that he claims to have authority over. He has no honor and therefore you are under no obligation to follow his orders."

"First Officer..." Da'sev growled threateningly.

I took a gamble. "The Sentinel knew of the pirate raid on the Hackevius facility in advance! He helped coordinate the pirates and the cyber hijacking of our phase drives to force us to this desperate situation!"

Teuric blinked once at me, then briefly looked over at the Sentinel. He clicked open his wrist holo. "Commandant Juka," he said, calling to the marine commander, "send an armed squad to the command center."

"Teuric…" I looked at him in disbelief.

Sentinel Da'sev gave out a cruel laugh. "I'm glad to see your second in command is not as traitorous as you are. I'll be sure to cleanse this fleet of your heretical influence." He slowly advanced forward, continuing his mocking tone. "I'm surprised by your sway over some of your crew," he looked pointedly at Officer Varlaek, who was almost shaking at this point. "And when I'm through with you, Warlord, and your disloyal subordinates, all of you will be _wishing _for death."

My aide, Bashkal, dropped his holo and advanced to my side. "Do not come any closer to the Warlord!" He shouted defiantly, beginning to pull his blaster from his side holster.

I held out a hand, preventing the situation from escalating further. "Bashkal. Please. We've had enough murder for a day."

"I'm not surprised that your aide follows you into the Void," Da'sev barked. The doors of the bridge opened and an armed squad of marines entered. "Ah, moving along quite swimmingly, aren't we? First Officer, if you would give the command?"

First Officer Teuric nodded curtly. "At once." He turned to the squad. "Marines! Take Sentinel Da'sev into custody under suspicion of treason!"

Da'sev's mocking face quickly was replaced by surprise as he processed Teuric's order. "What?" he said, startled. The marines moved forward as Da'sev began to back up, completely flustered. "What are you doing? Stop! By _Council Authority_ I order you to stop!"

Seeing as the marines were converging on him, Da'sev frantically looked at me. He growled and flicked open his electric whip, and began to run and swing a crackling lash towards me in a diagonal strike.

I saw it coming. I had seen such a martial move many times before during my tutelage under Lvorak as a young one. It was a move taught in upper combat circles, designed to maximize lethality against a single target. The angle of the attack was such that it would be difficult to side step.

Remembering my training, I took a single step backwards and pushed forward, launching myself into a vault while rotating my body to the side, letting the crackling electric whip to pass under me and land on the consoles behind me. I let the momentum carry me forward, bringing up my claws as I closed the distance with the Sentinel and letting my armored knuckles crash down on his head.

The force of my hit knocked Da'sev to the ground and he crumpled backwards, the electric whip automatically turning off as it fell from his grasp.

I turned to the marines, who looked speechlessly at me and the Da'sev's unconscious body. "Please take the Sentinel to the brig," I said calmly, although a little breathlessly.

A chorus of 'Yes, my lord" answered me and the marines picked the Arm of the Council operative up roughly and began to vacate the command center.

"Teuric," I said, looking at the First Officer.

"Forgive me, my lord, for the deception," he said, eyes downwards.

"All is forgiven, First Officer. Thank you. I shouldn't have doubted you in the first place." I then addressed Bashkal, was still recovering from the swiftness of how I taken down Da'sev. "Lieutenant Bashkal, your loyalty is greatly appreciated."

"Thank you, my lord," said Bashkal.

"Nevertheless," I said, "It was foolish to oppose Da'sev so openly. He could have killed you. The next time you want to attack a superior enemy, at least wait until his back is turned."

Bashkal looked to the side somewhat sheepishly. "Yes, my lord. I'll keep that in mind for the next time that you get arrested by a Council authority."

I grinned and then turned back to the command center. Every technician and officer stood, having watched the entire exchange with the disliked Sentinel. There was silence, until someone shouted out:

"Vacek _Kultorask!"_

"Kultorask!"

"_Kultorask!" _

The cry was joined by the other crew members.

Kultorask. A title usually given to returning victorious admirals. 'Defender of the Fleet'.

I let a small smile light up in my eyes as I stood in awe of this demonstration of loyalty from my crew. I let the moment last, before I rose my hands to end the chant. Glancing at the displays, I could see that the Advent fleet was still stalled motionlessly on the other side of the dwarf planet. I strode over to the comm officer's station.

"Third Commandant Varlaek," I said.

"H-here, my lord," he stuttered.

"Thank you." I placed a reassuring hand on Varlaek's shoulder. "Can you open an audio channel with the Advent forces?"

"I…I believe so, my lord," Varlaek said. He pressed a few keys on the console and then turned it towards me, giving me room.

"Thank you, commandant. I'll take it from here." I pressed the relevant key on the console, opening up an audio channel.

Exhaling a short breath, I heard the audible noise which signaled that a translation program was now operating.

"This is Warlord Vacek Tu'chur, Chief Officer of the _Vaekus, _Fleet Commander of the Vasari Saevus Advance Fleet. To any Advent receiving this hail, do not engage. Repeat, we have no hostile intentions. Do _not _engage."

There was a long silence held up by the sound of static. I waited for one moment, then another. I was about to repeat the hail when a response came back over the channel.

A garble, followed by an alien language that was simultaneously translated into Vasari common by the translation program.

"_This is Sister Gaellia of the Advent Emergency Defense Forces, Third Priestess of the Ast Eternal. We were responding to a pirate raid on our colony. What is a Vasari fleet doing, armed and ready for battle, far behind the front lines?" _

I felt some sweat gathering between my golden eyes. Here was the pitch. I got myself ready to explain the strange circumstances, hoping that our gun ports would not begin firing by the end of the next few statements.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The walk to the brig, located in the underbelly of the Skirantra carrier, was a long and quiet one. My aide walked silently next to me as our armored feet clicked on the smooth metal-plated corridor.

We passed through several security checkpoints before coming to a darker, poorly lit hallway. Several identical armored doors lined the hallway, entirely the same in outward appearance. For the most part they were empty, housing only a couple trouble-makers and poorly disciplined crewmen who were sleeping off a drunken night. There was one exception: two armed guards stood outside of the cell which housed the Arm Sentinel.

Bashkal and I came to the door and I returned the salute from the guards. They stepped to the side, giving me access.

"Warlord Kultorask," one said in respect. I gave an absent minded nod; I was still getting used to the new title the crew had bestowed upon me.

My DNA print overrode the security code, opening it up and revealing Sentinel Da'sev, unarmored and with only his personal tunic on, lying on a metal cot at the far end and dried blood on his head from where I hit him.

I entered the room and Bashkal followed, closing the door behind us.

Da'sev looked up at us. His mocking tone and boastful attitude from earlier where entirely absent, replaced by an overwhelming gaze of contempt and hatred.

"So, the traitor himself comes to visit."

"Get over yourself, Da'sev. You've been under lock for only three hours."

Da'sev awkwardly coughed. He sat up completely and then flicked his eyes from me to Bashkal. "I'll assume from the lack of heavy weapons fire earlier that your gamble with the Advent paid off."

I didn't let any gloating seep into my words. I would not stoop to his level. "Yes. After I explained the situation, I offered to share intelligence on pirate activity with the Advent commander in exchange for a temporary cessation of hostilities in our region. Nothing major. The war goes on. But, yes, it was a successful diplomatic exchange."

Da'sev huffed. "Congratulations," he said tonelessly. "Good luck on explaining it to the High Council."

"I'm a Warlord. I don't answer directly to anyone. They'll learn about it when the time is right," I responded.

I then stood in front of him, several meters away, my arms loose. "Why did you do it? Who ordered you to try and draw my fleet into an ambush by the pirates?" Behind his back, Bashkal clicked the recorder, ready to capture every word that Da'sev spilled.

The subject of our interrogation gave a contemptful laugh, reminiscent of his earlier laughs but very much subdued in spirit. "You're not going to kill me."

"Please," I said, "I know the codes better than you. Only the High Council can execute an Arm operative. But there is _nothing _that prevents me from beating you to within an inch of your life in order to get what I want. In fact, when you're returned to them in a state where you can no longer speak or move your arms, I'm fairly certain that my allies on the High Council will ensure that there is no further inquiry into the _accident _which turned you that way.

"Or, you switch sides. Tell us the full scope of what happened and accept the protection of Narak's faction. You begin working for us, and whoever was directing you won't be able to lay a finger on you."

I knew Vasari like Da'sev. For an Empire based so much on honor and loyalty, there is an exorbitant number of public servants, military officers, and nobles who simply follow the money and power. Da'sev obviously acted as the lapdog of someone on the High Council, but his attitude and the way he prided himself on his position demonstrated that he was far more interested in holding on to his life than he was concerned about abstract values of loyalty. When given the opportunity, he would jump ship.

Da'sev fell silent as he understood how serious I was. He didn't speak for a minute, but I could hear the sound of his nervous breathing. I let the silence grow, letting him become uncomfortable and giving him the opportunity to speak first. And slowly, quietly, he did.

"It was Kal'chev."

The noble. I was strangely not surprised. Our family feud ran deep.

"The object was not to destroy the Saevus Advance Fleet; your forces are holding back both the TEC and the Advent at this crossroads in space. But your continued victories and successes were becoming too much of a threat, especially as rumors of your more personal beliefs about the direction of the Vasari Empire began to circulate."

Da'sev took a pause. I stayed silent, encouraging him to continue.

He began, "So, Kal'chev and some of his allies decided to act pre-emptively. They knew that pirate attacks, suspected to have been financed by the Trader Emergency Coalition, had been increasing in frequency lately. Transferring their focus to your territory specifically would not be too difficult, as long as the right amount of money passed through the right amount of hands.

"The Hackevius Facility was chosen purposefully because of its strategic value to you. We knew that you would respond immediately with a large force to hunt down whoever attacked it. The pirates raided the place and left behind a program that we developed in the computer systems, which would activate once you picked it up. Once you began analyzing it to try and discover the trails of the pirates, it began to take control of specific systems on your ship which—since the _Vaekus _acts as a hub for the rest of the fleet—would affect the rest of the ships following you."

I had to admit that it was a very well done move. I wondered aloud, "How come you didn't make the program more deadly than just hijacking our phase drives? We were somewhat banged up after coming out of the jump, but besides that there was little damage."

He shifted awkwardly. "Well, it _was _intended to split your forces in half. One would be sent to the original location, and the other would be sent behind Advent lines. With only half of your ships, the battle with the pirates would have been much longer and bloodier, probably lasting for as long until the Advent response showed up. You would have been left with heavy casualties and most likely another vengeful Advent offensive. But, to put it simply, because you sent in your digger team so early to investigate the facility logs, the program was not able to set up in time. It couldn't breach the intended amount of firewalls, so the entire force was sent to one location."

"What would you have done if the _Vaekus _had come under risk of being destroyed?" I asked.

"If you have to ask that, I suppose you haven't found it. There is a phase-capable shuttle, lying in one of the unused reserve hanger bays. It was my backup plan. But we knew your combat abilities; the object was to get you discredited as a Warlord in a strategic location, not to get you killed."

"So that was it? Give the High Council a reason to get me removed from my position? Seems like a lot of preparation for a small gain."

"Do you know what you symbolize?" said Da'sev. "You symbolize everything the traditionalists hate. Your meteoric rise to prominence. Your way of leadership. Your unwillingness to give proper deference to the nobility. Combine all of that with the influence of Narak, and you become a rallying cry for the younger generations who wish to end our flight and take a stance in this galactic sector. Narak staked a lot on endorsing you. The loss of one or two squadrons with nothing to show for it would not only discredit you as a commander, but also eliminate much of Narak's political capital.

"Not only that, but it would bring back the murmurs about your father. His failure ended with his name being wiped from the annals of Vasari history. Even a small setback for you would bring back comparisons and greater scrutiny. The Tu'chur name has very little leeway in the eyes of the nobility and much of the upper military orders."

My father.

It had been years since I had thought of him. One of the great failures. He had been executed for his defeat before I even got my first commission. But before the memories could come flooding back, I shook my head and resolved myself to stay focused on the issue at hand.

"So when we emerged from the skirmish largely intact and I began to hail the Advent fleet, you made your move?"

"I was never meant to directly interfere, only observe and gently influence you into falling into our trap. I had hoped that my authority would sway your men, but it appears they developed some personal loyalty towards you." He looked not so subtly over at Bashkal.

"How many agents have infiltrated my fleet? Or my regional military government, for that matter."

Da'sev shook his head. "No idea. Even I was not given the full details of the actions being taken to swing against Narak and the new reformers or even just against you. But I do know that both sides, both Kal'chev and Narak, are resorting to subversive, nominally _dishonorable _actions in order to gain ground. It's an unspoken war."

A civil war was brewing. I realized that that was what the Sentinel was telling me. Even with the threat of the Advent and the TEC, the Vasari High Council was tearing itself apart. For not the first time, I almost began to regret accepting my commission as a Warlord.

I looked over at Bashkal, who nodded to show that everything that had been spoken had been recorded. His eyes flicked upwards. I understood the signal and nodded back. The ship security cameras had been turned off.

"Sentinel Da'sev, do you have anything else important to tell me at this moment?" I said.

Da'sev leaned back against the wall. "No, not really. It's all in my personal files already, but I'm sure your data analysis team has already broken my passwords and rifled through my desk. How much longer will I be staying in this cell?"

"Oh, not for very much longer," I said. I took a step back and took the blaster from my hip holster. I switched off the safety, resting my thumb on the trigger and pointing the weapon at the Sentinel.

I could Da'sev's eyes grow large and his speech came out stuttered. "I-I thought you said you would let me live!"

"I lied."

I pressed down. A ferro-plasma round exited the chamber and punched right through Da'sev's unarmored body. His hands were slightly raised as if he was trying to protect himself. His head flopped down bonelessly. His body crumpled and slid down to the floor, leaving behind a gory trail in its wake.

"Bashkal," I said. "Do have this mess cleaned up within the hour. Send it into vacuum with the next garbage disposal."

"Right away, my lord."

I holstered the blaster and turned, opening the door of the cell and passing the two guards as I made my way back to my personal quarters to retire for the night.

As long as the Sentinel was still alive, he would always be a threat. Someone who switched loyalties at the drop of a hat would be of no use to either me or Narak. I was just cleaning up loose ends.

It was dishonorable of me. I knew that. But the words of my mentor, Lvorak, came back to me, from all those years ago.

_Victory at any cost._

The hallway was cold and silent as I walked away, alone.

* * *

**A/N: **Bleh, I suck at writing action scenes. I had an awkward moment when I realized that I had started writing in this character's perspective from third person, when it was originally first person in Ch.5. I fixed it for consistency sake, but hopefully the grammar gods don't kill me for this.

Leave a review on your way out!

-CinnamonTea


	14. Chapter 14: The Prisoner

**-Zia-**

_She was standing in a garden. Alone. Garden beds lay on either side of her, filled with verdant, leafy plants. The air was fresh and clean. It was peaceful. Quiet. She was curious, but at ease. There was something about the place that made her feel at home, even though she knew she'd never been there before._

_Zia could see a clay-bricked path that stretched out in front of her. It disappeared behind more garden beds, filled with small trees and thick bushes speckled with blossoming flower buds which blocked her view. _

_She walked down the path. Soon she passed the flower beds and came to an open area. Unlike the gardens she had passed, this clearing was made up of harsh soil and sprouts of tough, dry grass. It was as if the sun beat down harder here. The path became more dilapidated as she went further into the desert-like clearing. The bricks became more cracked and worn down by use and the unforgiving terrain._

_There was a small orange flower growing alongside a small tuft of grass in the dry, weathered dirt. As Zia walked farther she saw more. Small bunches of white and orange, appearing in tiny clefts of the arid soil. There were more of them the farther Zia went into the clearing._

_The path had almost disappeared when Zia came upon a small stream trickling through the clearing. Tufts of bright green grass and a multitude of the flowers sprouted alongside the sides of the water, drawing from this solitary source of nourishment._

_She walked closer, kneeled by the stream, and looked down at one of the flowers. It was healthy and orange-colored, and was composed of three small petals. How strange that it had grown here, on the edge of an unforgiving landscape. _

_A voice spoke to her. "Mariposa lilies."_

_Zia sat up in a start, looking around her. "Huh?"_

_Right in front of her stood a strange, middle-aged woman. She was dressed in the livery of an Advent priestess, wearing ornate white and cobalt-dyed robes. She wore simple sandals, exposing veiny, weathered feet. What was strange, though, was that the woman's eyes were not pure, glowing white, unlike the mono-colored irises and pupils of all Advent priestesses that Zia knew of. This woman's eyes were hazel. Uninfluenced by the extensive side effects of immersive PsiTech implants._

_The woman looked down at her. "The flower. It's a Mariposa lily."_

_"Oh," said Zia. She paused. "Are they special to you?"_

_the woman smiled softly. "Not particularly. But they are special flowers. They grow in arid regions, but can only be found by water." She kneeled down, and cupped one of the orange blossoms. "When you see one, it means there's water nearby. They're beautiful, but tough and resilient little ones."_

_Zia nodded cautiously. She slowly stood up, brushing the dirt from her dress as she did. "What-what is the place? And…who are you?"_

_The woman turned from the blossom and looked at the young Psintegrat, her warm, hazel eyes boring into Zia's harsh, white ones. "You don't know?"_

_The woman yanked the Mariposa lily from the ground, and it shriveled and died in her hands._

Zia awoke screaming.

Something was on fire. The smell of acrid, spoiled blood choked her throat as she tried to take a breath. She couldn't see—something was blinding her. She started struggling. Screaming. Why was she screaming?

"Damn it! She's waking up!" A loud voice shouted above her.

"What on—how the hell? We sedated her!" Another voice. Equally loud. Booming. Too loud.

Zia hacked and coughed. Her _skin_. It was burning. Something was on fire in her veins, shredding her senses to pieces from within. She tried to scratch at herself to put it out. She couldn't. Her hands were restrained. Shewas burning to death.

"We need another injection. Bloody hell, she's going to kill herself!"

"Prepping!"

Zia kept clawing. She was coughing and crying. She was dying. This is what a painful death felt like.

A painful prick in her arm. All of a sudden, she felt a wave of lethargy overcome her. She tried to breathe, but couldn't. Against her will, her body slumped and she lost consciousness.

* * *

When Zia awoke again, it was very quiet. Too quiet. Did she…die?

Something was beating rhythmically and softly in the background. What was it?

_My heart_.

Her heart beating, mechanically and consistently. In her chest. Which was intact. Not dead. Her skin no longer felt on fire. But there was a dull ache in her entire body. She felt heavy. Something felt missing.

Her eyelids were ponderous, carrying the weight that one feels after too much sleep. It took an immense amount of effort to open them and a long moment to allow them to focus. Finally, she was able to take stock of her surroundings.

She was lying in a cell illuminated by a set of dim, yellow fluorescent lights. There was a door with a small window, letting in some light from the hallway. The room was fairly bare, adorned only with a desk with a metal chair, a toilet, a small mirror high up on the wall, and the bunk that she was laying on. She herself was no longer in the battle-dress that she had last remembered wearing, but in a simple hospital gown made of some synthetic fiber.

_The battle_.

That's right. She remembered now. Zia had been aboard her Aeria Drone Host, which was part of an Advent strike force caught up in an ambush from the humans. An EMP pulse had knocked out her ship and cancelled the psionic links of the Psintegrats aboard, including her. The barbarous Traders must have captured her. How long had it been since then? How did she end up here? And where was _here?_ Zia tried to sit up but found, to her surprise, that her hands were restrained to the bunk.

A buzzing noise filled the room, blaring for a few seconds before the door slid open. The sound of crisp footsteps on a polished fllor preceded the entrance of a large, grim-faced human soldier carrying a hefty baton, who was followed by a smaller, yet equally grim-faced man with sharp eyes. The man had black hair and a pair of rimmed glasses which balanced on a narrow, weak-looking nose. The man was wearing a simple green uniform with no rank insignia, and he held a data pad and a recording device in his hands.

"Don't bother struggling," the man remarked, "Those restraints are far too strong for you. I wouldn't recommend trying anything."

Zia glanced down at her fists, surprised to see that they were clenched. She relaxed them.

"Good," said the man. He fiddled with an earpiece and pulled up the metal chair from the desk over to her bedside. He glanced up and nodded to the guard who had assumed an alert posture in a position by the door. The sharp-eyed man clicked a button with his thumb on the recording device and set it on the ground next to him.

"I assume you can understand me?" said the man.

Zia nodded.

"Good. Glad to know that we still left that neural implant in one piece."

_One piece? What did they take out? _Zia thought.

The man looked down at her as if he could see the questions behind her eyes. "I'm sure you have plenty of things you want to ask, but first I'm going to have to cover a few things with you." He crossed his legs and laid his data pad down on them. "My name is Murrow. I'm an officer within the Department of Naval Intelligence of the Trader Emergency Coalition. I'll be supervising you for the time that you spend here. The gentleman by the door is Sergeant Gray, one of our security officers. Let's start by asking what your name is."

Murrow waited for Zia to respond. When she didn't, he looked at the soldier by the door. "She knows how to talk, right?"

The soldier shrugged.

The intelligence officer frowned and leaned forward, his sharp eyes peering into hers. "You're an Advent Psintegrat. Middle-ranking, judging by your uniform and your station's position in that ship. You have the potential to be valuable to us. It's my job to make sure that you're comfortable, since you'll be staying with us for quite some time." He leaned back and cocked his head slightly to the side. "So I'll give you a break. Ask me a question."

Zia hesitated and glanced over to the security officer at the door. A white hallway was beyond. She looked back at Murrow. It was hard to speak, but Murrow waited patiently until she opened her mouth.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"An intelligence installation. We call it Outpost 13." Murrow gestured with his hand to the door. "One of many in TEC space. We acquire and study alien assets here. That includes, on occasion, prisoners of war, like you. "

_Study?_ Zia grimaced at the thought of her being a specimen to these Traders. "So how can you understand me? For that matter, how can I understand you?" Trader and Advent language were not known to be mutually intelligible.

"I'm sure you're familiar with augmentation and implantation. You're more technology than biology yourself," Murrow said and tapped his head. "I have an implant, up in here. The best linguists in Trader space have been working on cracking your language, and I have a little gizmo that helps my brain translate the sounds that you make. As for how you can understand me," he pointed at her, "You yourself have an implant. One of the dozens, by how it was placed, that you were probably implanted with prior to your deployment in your Advent fleet. It serves a similar function to mine, it seems. I'm sure you know more about it than I do."

Zia shook her head. "No. They didn't tell us too much." Of course, Zia was lying. She knew. She had received many new pieces of PsiTech before she set off in an offensive against the Traders. One of them was a communication device, to help all Psintegrats understand human speech should they intercept a radio wave or something or the other. But Zia wasn't going to be explaining the nature of her military implants of the Unity to a TEC intelligence officer.

Murrow hummed, unconvinced. "I'm sure. We can come back to that." He tapped on his data pad. "Now, I'll ask you again. What is your name?"

She thought for a moment and decided there was no harm in telling him. "Zia."

"Zia. Thank you." Murrow made a note on his data pad. "Well, Zia. Welcome to Outpost 13."

Zia looked back at the door. The prison guard had not moved. The hallway was right there. If she could move her hands, she could activate her PsiTech. Attack the intelligence officer with her fists. The chair was made from simple steel, she was certain. Manipulate the wavelengths of the chair and have it fly into the guard with an inhumanly amount of velocity. When he's stunned, grab his baton. Put them both down, then escape to the hallway. Her PsiTech and gut instincts would be enough to get her to a space vessel, or some form of escape.

Zia cleared her throat. "Officer Murrow?" she asked politely.

"Yes, Zia?" Murrow looked at her expectantly.

"You said your job was to make sure I was comfortable here?"

"That I did."

She gestured with her head to her restraints. "Will I be restrained like this for my entire time here? Or will you be allowing me some freedom of movement?"

Murrow considered her proposal and then nodded. "You're right. They were kept on as a precaution. If I undo them, you'll behave yourself, right?"

Zia nodded, in what she thought was an earnest manner.

Murrow laid down his data pad and reached over to undo the buckles around her wrists. First the far left one, and then the right.

The instant that his hands undid the right restraint, Zia reached up with her left fist and cracked it against Murrow's face. He yowled with pain, clutching his nose. The guard at the door started and pulled his baton, crackling with electricity, from his belt.

Zia paid him no mind for now, leaping up to her feet and shoving Murrow with all the strength she had. Her arms felt weak and unused to physical activity. No matter. Her PsiTech was all that she needed.

She cast her consciousness outwards, to the chair that Murrow had just been sitting on. She clenched her fists again, preparing to use her mind and body to alter the molecules of the chair which were in contact with the floor. She would manipulate their wavelengths, expanding and deforming them, building up pressure over the course of a millisecond so that the chair could fly off the ground with an immense amount of speed and collide with the guard with enough force to destroy his internal organs. These Traders were no match for her skills and powers. They were fools to underestimate her.

But she stopped suddenly and gasped. When she reached out, to the chair, there was nothing. In fact, she had not felt the familiar rushing sensation that comes with psintegration. Her hands were not glowing with energy. Her mind felt normal, not charged or brimming with power. There was no psionic power for her to activate. What in the Unity was going on? Her eyes widened as she began to consider what was wrong. What the very worst could be.

"Missing something?" said Murrow mockingly, still holding his nose as blood dripped from it.

Zia looked at Murrow, eyes wide with horror. Behind Murrow, there was the mirror that adorned the cell. She couldn't help but notice her own reflection in it. Her snowy white hair, a side effect of her training in brute force PsiTech, was the same. But her eyes—they were no longer the familiar, glowing white.

They were dull, and hazel.

Her PsiTech was gone. It was why she felt like she was dying in the operating room. They had been removing her implants. She was now no more special or enlightened than the humans who captured her.

The guard closed the distance and jammed the baton into Zia's back. Electricity coursed through her, setting her nerves on fire. She slumped back down on the bunk as she felt herself losing consciousness. Too many times. What horror was next for when she woke up again?

Murrow stood above her, his sharp eyes stabbing into her as she fell. His nose was bleeding, but he was otherwise unharmed. "You're a feisty one. But you have no claws anymore." He adjusted his glasses. "And the TEC will break you, one way or another."

Zia wished she could scream. Scared, alone, and terrified, she fell unconscious.

* * *

A/N:

And I'm back! It's been a very long absence. I hope to have a few more chapters coming out relatively soon.

Thanks so much to reviewers **Foacir, TheSilenceisVast, ZackbFunky, survivor686, DutchWarlord12, viperodx, MajorKO, A-01, **and **Guest. ** It was your reviews which eventually galvanized me to get back into writing this fanfic. I love reading your feedback (good and bad). Hope you enjoy this one and Happy New Year.

-CinnamonTea


	15. Chapter 15: The Deliverance Engine

**-Derryk Hantar, Deputy Secretary to the Executive-**

**-en route to Luna Base-**

It was a menacing, hulking battleship. Shaped like a miniature assault rifle, the warship sported a hefty railgun on its nose surrounded with heavy beam weapons and autocannon fixtures. Massive, thick plates of solid titano-ferric armor overlapped on the hull, reinforcing nearly all weak points with metres-thick pieces of steel. Its structure and layout reflected the sole purpose for its creation, development, and deployment: the execution of unbridled violence. A beautiful and deadly manifestation of naval power, the battleship was a remarkable feat of scientific ingenuity, engineering, and human capability. It stood by itself atop a pedestal as the harbinger of a new horizon of TEC military development. The product of a deadly covenant between mankind and the gods of war. Myra would love it.

Way overpriced, though. Hantar scowled as he looked at the display text of the model. There was no conceivable reason why a toy, meant for unsophisticated, simple entertainment, could cost so much. The gift shop had absurdly inflated prices, most likely pandering to the ultra-wealthy men and women who trawled through these corridors on their way to interplanetary cruises.

The middle-aged clerk behind the counter threw a smile his way. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No. Not on my salary, lady," Hantar said gruffly. He turned from the battleship model on the shelf and took a few steps towards the exit. When he glanced at the clerk again, she was frowning at him, her arms crossed.

Internally sighing and feeling mildly guilty, Hantar went over to the counter. "I guess I can have a pack of those mints."

The clerk harrumphed but rang up his order dutifully.

"Thanks," he said, sliding the mints into his coat pocket. The clerk turned her spindly nose up at him and returned to busying herself in the empty shop.

Hantar walked out into the terminal and checked his watch. Quarter to thirteen. They'd need to be brisk to make it to their shuttle bay in time for launch.

Business was slow. Many of the gaily-lit cafes and stores that encircled the concourse were empty. A group of businessmen chatted with each other outside of a ritzy restaurant, their dark suits standing out on the gleaming, well-polished tile floors of the terminal. Three navy officers—probably finishing up their leave, Hantar absently thought—were joking and gesturing to each other as they meandered among some of the shops.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his Handheld and checked his appearance in the self-facing camera. Hantar had auburn-brown hair parted neatly to the side, revealing well-set stress lines on his forehead. His eyebrows were oddly shaped, like small triangles that hovered above his narrow, brown eyes. He frowned. He was not looking at his peak. Thankfully his appointment for the day was with old acquaintances. The time for good first impressions was long past.

A voice called from behind him. "Worrying about appearances again?"

Hantar turned. Kuan was standing there, the stout policy advisor to the Centrist Party making last minute adjustments to the knot of his grey tie.

"What kept you?"

"Hey, you can't rush a man's business," said Kuan. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Also the restroom's dryers were acting weird!"

"Whatever. Let's get going. We'll miss the shuttle." Hantar returned his Handheld to his coat, and simultaneously grabbed the packet of mints from his pocket. "Care for one?"

"Flavor?" Kuan asked.

Hantar scrutinized the packet more closely. "Plasmic-Winterfresh?"

The shorter man made a face. "No thanks." Hantar put the mints back in his pocket. "Where'd you get those anyways?"

"Gift shop." Hantar didn't say any more on the matter and Kuan shrugged.

The two made their way from the concourse to the landing bays, passing a large group of newly arrived passengers. The corridor was lined with a massive screen, displaying a dour-looking male news reporter outside the doors of the General Parliamentary plenum.

"_Discontent of Secretary-General Kincaid's performance continues to grow within Parliament, as the recent breaking news that he had authorized the funding and arming of pirate bands in frontier systems was leaked last week. Kincaid maintains that the purpose of this outsourcing was solely a decision based on military strategy and therefore fully within his authority, but vocal criticism has continued to…"_

Hantar gave a side-glance at the screen as he walked by, grimacing but saying nothing. The revelations that funding had been given to vilified pirate bands, a program run by Naval Intelligence and signed off by the secretary-general, had unleashed a small political earthquake. The Radicals were clamoring for Kincaid's head. Already under fire for his carefully measured responses to Vasari and Advent incursions, the beleaguered chief executive of the Emergency Coalition now faced the prospect of a small-scale parliamentary rebellion from frontier system representatives.

Kuan saw Hantar's scowl. He scratched his head. "I'll admit, I'm not sure that this is going to be a storm that will blow over."

Hantar huffed. "Vedalt and his merry band of radicals. They'll try and wring as much as they can from this. But it's not enough. They won't topple Kincaid just yet."

"I don't know. It's pretty clear that they're going to call for a vote of no confidence. And soon," Kuan said.

"It won't pass. They don't have the votes." Hantar leaned over. "So long as the Center doesn't break."

"Yeah, yeah. The party leader was clear. Us centrists aren't ditching. I think a lot of the other leadership will follow that lead. Can't say the same for some of the fringe members," said Kuan. "It...well, it might be a close vote."

The pair reached the shuttle bay. Sliding doors blocked their entry into the docked and ready shuttle. They swiped their handhelds over the automated scanners and the doors opened. They walked through and reached the shuttle. A handful of suit-clad businessmen were the only other passengers. Hantar and Kuan found their seats and buckled in. Noting the provided earplugs, Hantar popped them in to drown out the sound of the launch.

It took a couple hours to reach Luna Station. Kuan was alternating between reading emails and typing out an official party missive. Hantar was reviewing materials for his upcoming appointment, going through intelligence documents he had already picked through.

In the corner of his mind he wondered if there would be time to get something from a toy shop for Myra on Luna Base. Hantar's daughter was turning seven next week. From what his ex-wife said the last time they spoke, Myra still very much liked spaceships, action figures, and military dress up. Hantar allowed himself to smirk at that thought. Their shared interest in that sector was one of the few things he could still bond with his daughter over.

The shuttle began to fire its decelerating thrusters as it came closer to Luna Base. From the viewing ports along the side of the vessel, Hantar could see the glittering and blinking lights that covered the military installation. Luna Base alone now covered nearly an eighth of the Moon's surface area, not including the massive dockyard shared by civilian and military purposes as well as the sprawling industrial operations that lanced haphazardly out on Earth's natural satellite. The lights came closer until Hantar could make out different buildings, corridors, and launch pads. The shuttle's onboard computer spoke over the intercom in its calm, feminine voice, initiating a countdown until docking.

When the shuttle landed, both men exited down a ramp into the terminal. It was bustling with people, as traders, businessmen, shipyard workers, and military personnel went about their hectic schedules. On his left, Hantar could look out of a viewing port to a massive docking bay with multiple tiers and a dozen levels. An enormous _Sova_-class squadron carrier was linked by comically large mechanical arms to the dock. It looked weathered, its armor marred with gouges in several places showing where enemy missiles or cannons had penetrated its shield. The carrier did not look nearly as deadly as some of the direct combat capital ships Hantar had seen, but he could still visibly discern the true source of its power: the starfighters and bombers lining the decks. Work and automated repair ships zipped around the carrier, providing refits and replacing the carrier's armor.

They came to a juncture in the terminal.

"Well," Kuan said. "This is where we part."

"Need to catch a connection?"

"Yep. There's a fella here who I'm supposed to pass a message to. Then I'm off to Sirius."

Hantar raised an eyebrow. "A message in person? That's peculiar."

Kuan smirked, almost mischievously. "Mhm."

"What kind of a message?"

"Oh c'mon," Kuan chuckled. "I've known you for a long time, Derryk. But I'm a party member first, and your friend second." He tipped an imaginary hat and turned to go on his way.

Hantar gave a soft laugh. He watched the retreating back of his longtime friend for a moment before glancing at his watch and continuing in the opposite direction.

"Undersecretary?"

A woman in an olive green uniform and a holo gripped crisply by her side stood before him. Hantar noted that she wore no rank insignia, as was the style of most officers in Naval Intelligence, but she did bear a unit patch on her shoulder. A golden key overlaid a sword and lightning bolt which crossed, all of which adorned a simple white shield. The patch worn by a member of Naval Intelligence Command.

Hantar firmly shook her offered hand. "Deputy Secretary now, actually."

"My apologies, Deputy Secretary," said the woman, politely but un-apologetically. Her grey eyes were clinical, professional, and almost surgical in how they analyzed him. "Lieutenant Colonel Marta Everdeen, here to escort you to the intelligence briefing."

He nodded and allowed the intelligence officer to lead him through the corridors.

Hantar initiated some small talk. "Most people aren't aware of my new position, so no harm done."

"To be frank, I was not even aware that your position existed, Deputy Secretary," she replied.

"Up until three days ago, neither was I," he said. It was a position created by Secretary-General Kincaid just for him, to enable Hantar more flexibility and freedom to act in directly assisting the executive office than his previously somewhat neutered position.

"Quite an elevation, if I may say so."

He gave the woman a side glance. Her face betrayed no emotion. He sighed, hating that he could not read her. "Yes. Some do say so."

"From career civil official to political appointee and chief advisor to the Secretary-General. Kincaid has a lot of trust in you."

Hantar frowned. "Are you implying something, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Nothing at all. I am simply a curious person, Deputy Secretary," said Everdeen, without malice in her voice.

Hantar scrutinized her again, but did not see even a twitch in her eyebrow. "Am I really so interesting to you, Ms. Everdeen?" he said.

"Many things are interesting to me, sir. Your newly granted and wide-ranging authority over military affairs is merely one of many things I am curious about."

"Trust me," Hantar said with an inward sigh, "Director Moldec and the lobbying powers of the Department of Naval Intelligence are at the bottom of my list for things I want to disturb. I'm sure you're aware of my history of good relationships with the leadership here."

Everdeen kept her head pointed forward, but swiveled her eyes to Hantar and then back to the front in less than a second. "With no disrespect intended, it's not _my_ curiosity which should have you worried, Deputy Secretary."

Hantar was taken aback for a moment. He was unable to decide if that comment was a threat or a warning. Not confident on either, he decided to respond with puffed indignation. "Does every officer in Intelligence Command think it is wise to give lip to a senior government official? Or is it just you?"

The female intelligence officer gave what could be considered as a hint of a smile before her face just as quickly returned to a neutral position. "I'm a unique case. I've enjoyed a small dose of special treatment. Courtesy of the Director and the lobbying powers of the Department of Naval Intelligence."

Hantar was unused to attitude, especially from a military officer. Without anything to respond with and still mulling over her words, he let the conversation die and they continued their walk through the military base in silence. He would investigate her further. If she wanted an enemy in him, he'd gladly sink her career.

They entered an office-like building with rows and rows of cubicles filled with military and civilian personnel. The air was busy as men and women conferred with one another, discussing things furiously. Pencil pushers deciding the fates of thousands of soldiers with math and logic. Everdeen kept up a brisk pace, and they arrived at a secure entrance, which she swiped through. They then passed through a series of security checkpoints. Guards saluted the female officer and allowed them through, having already scanned Hantar as he approached and affirming his identity. The checkpoints behind them, they left the noise behind them and came to a simple wooden door.

"After you, sir." Everdeen held the door open for Hantar. The deputy secretary nodded curtly and walked through into a conference room dominated by a long wooden table in the center surrounded by comfortable leather chairs.

Director Moldec, head of the Department of Naval Intelligence, sat near the head of the table. Moldec was flanked by several other intelligence officers wearing olive uniforms. Everyone in the small room looked like a military-type, except for a single, older man wearing round bifocals and a lab coat who sat nervously by the door.

They remained sitting as he entered, followed by Everdeen, but Moldec nodded in his direction.

"Good of you to join us, Hantar," said the Director. The aging intelligence chief looked more tired than usual, his mane sporting more grey and white hair than his natural black. Moldec addressed the rest of the group. "I'm glad you could come in person. The information we are going to present in this briefing is far too sensitive to discuss on a holo. I assume you received the documents we sent you?"

"They were forwarded to me," Hantar responded. "I read through them all, but they were exceedingly vague at describing exactly what it is that we're dealing with. My imagination was left on its own to try and explain what would demand an in-person briefing."

A screen began to descend on the far end of the room. "Again, we couldn't risk interception. Not just by the enemy, but by any unwanted eyes. It wouldn't be pretty if we allowed rumors to spread," Moldec said, gravely. He clicked a button in his hand, turning on the screen.

An image bloomed up on the screen. It was a grainy, still photograph. It was blurry, as if it was taken from a moving object that hadn't had enough time to focus properly. But the object, centered in the middle of the photo, could still be discerned.

It looked like an extremely narrow diamond, with its long side horizontal. A whitish surface covered part of the background, like a moon moving into the frame of the picture.

Moldec gestured to the image, "This was the first of a series of photos sent to us by a scouting probe, deep in enemy territory. Received by ansible burst two days ago. We haven't yet given a name to the dwarf planet in the background around which this object orbits, but we do know its stellar coordinates."

Click. Another photo on the screen, this one zoomed in, more focused. What Hantar had thought was diamond-shaped was actually a spherical center with four long, tiered arms made of a silvery metal stretching off of the edges of the center. Two arms on each side bent towards the other, nearly touching at the ends. The design was elegant and ornate. Its origin, consequently, was glaring at him.

"Advent," Hantar muttered.

"That's right."

"It's _enormous_."

Moldec nodded again. "Nearly thirty kilometers long, by our estimation. The sphere in the center could probably fit a fistful of capital ships inside it."

"But, what is this exactly? A weapon?"

"To be entirely honest, we don't know."

"You don't—what?" Hantar said, surprised. "You don't even know what type of object this is?"

Director Moldec leaned back in his chair. "Not yet, at least. We know it's Advent-make and that they're still constructing it, whatever it is." He indicated a portion of one of the 'arms' of the object. "If you look closely, you can see that portions of its structure are missing."

"Why even worry about it now? Why don't you just conduct a long-range scan and get some readings on it to figure out what it actually does?" said Hantar.

"We, uh, well we can't, Mr. Deputy Secretary." The older man in the lab coat by the door spoke up in a reedy, weak voice.

Hantar turned his eyes to him. "And you are?"

"His name is Pentecost. Head of one of our signals intelligence labs down in Section Five. I invited him here since it was his team that designed the probe that took these photos," said Moldec. "Go on, tell him what the issue is."

Pentecost looked to Moldec before he adjusted his bifocals and sat up, clearing his throat with a high-pitched _eh-HEM_. "The, well, the probe that took these photos was designed for more than just visual collection. In fact, actually, it has the capability for a consortium of long-range scanning methods, as you mentioned Mr. Secretary—which it has demonstrated on numerous other instances during its journey through Advent space. Functionally, it should be transmitting readings of the probability of what type of material this Advent object is made out of and what its source of energy is, if any. Uh, Mr. Director, if you would bring up the next photograph—ah, thank you."

Another image. Solely depicting the spherical center. The sphere was not solid, but composed of two, curved halves which together nearly encapsulated a smaller globular object which was adorned with a complicated aperture on its face. Like an eyeball, Hantar thought.

"For example," Pentecost stood up and walked over to the screen, "the aperture present at the front of the inner sphere seems designed for transmission...of something. We can speculate that if so, the rest of the object operates to support that transmission—like an engine supports the motion of a car, if you understand. The probe was not able to detect anything that might clue us in to what that transmission might be. The few readings we did receive were corrupted—garbled by either outside interference or lost simply due to limitations of how it sent the photos by ansible burst."

"To summarize," said Moldec, "long-range scanning is out the window. Our go-to method for intel gathering won't tell us anything about what this thing does or what its purpose might be."

"You said transmission," one of the other intelligence officers spoke up, "do we think they're going to use this for communications?"

"Well, transmission in a general sense," said Pentecost. "'Deliverance' may be a better term for it. The purpose of its construction and its 'engine' might be for delivering a message, like you mentioned, or it could be to deliver objects, of whatever nature that might be."

"Like objects of destruction," Hantar responded.

"Yes, well…yes. That is one distinct, and troubling, possibility," the older scientist said. He sat down.

"Deputy Secretary," said Moldec, bringing Hantar's attention back to his side of the table, "the fact that we have no idea what this thing is and that traditional means will not work are the reasons why we brought you here before us. We cannot very well continue to sit in the dark while the Advent possibly construct a weapon against us."

"It might just be a temple, or a trading facility for all we know," said Hantar, musing.

"It might be completely harmless, yes. Best case scenario, that's all it is," Moldec nodded.

"But worst case…"

Everdeen, the female officer who had escorted Hantar, interrupted, "Worst case, it's a weapon capable of interstellar destruction. Something that could even hit Earth." The room was silent for a long moment.

Hantar mulled this over. "What plan do you have, then, to investigate this Deliverance Engine?"

Everdeen looked over to the Director before speaking. "We have…a few ideas. Some are more conventional, smash and sweep, that sort of thing. Others which are more unorthodox."

"Anything promising?"

Director Moldec sat up. "Not at this stage. Well, actually," he leaned on the table, "there is one…proposal already on the table. Experimental. Been floating around for ages. As of now, it's our best bet. I don't think you are going to like it."

Hantar frowned but listened attentively. "Try me."

* * *

When Director Moldec had finished detailing the basics of the proposal to investigate the Advent structure, Hantar leaned dangerously back in his chair and stared silently at the ceiling. Moldec waited patiently as Hantar drummed his fingers against the table, deep in thought.

"And this is the best plan that you have?" he asked.

"For the time being. It's always possible that one of our planners will come up with something better at some point down the road," Moldec said. "My own opinion is that if we wish to arrest the development of some nefarious Advent project, our time schedule will demand that we put our plans into motion sooner rather than later."

Everdeen chimed in, "It would be dangerous to dally longer without having at least something in preparation, Deputy Secretary."

"Mmm…" Hantar grunted concomitantly. He sat up straight and looked seriously around the room. "If we were to go ahead with this…plan, is there any groundwork already done? Or would everything be created from scratch?"

"We have a couple assets in holding already. An especially promising one at Outpost 13, if the optimistic words of our lead officer on station has any validity," said Everdeen as she pulled out her holo and rapidly navigated through several intelligence reports.

"Optimistic? In what ways?"

Everdeen spoke without looking up, "The officer at Outpost 13 thinks that there's good common ground to be explored. She's an empathetic one, he said. Makes his job easier."

Hantar began drumming his fingers again against the table. "Hypothetically," he said slowly, "how many would we need? A whole team's worth…?"

"Oh no," said Director Moldec. "Two, perhaps, would be enough. Working alongside a highly capable team of TEC operatives and supported by our best analysts. We could do it."

"In reviewing the proposal, maybe even one would be sufficient. Not great. Practically no wiggle room. But it could still work," added Everdeen.

"Time estimates?" asked Hantar.

Everdeen glanced up, making a mental calculation before speaking: "Four to five months of preparation and training. One month to carefully infiltrate. Two, maybe three, weeks of intelligence gathering."

"Six months," the deputy secretary murmured. "And that's just until we would have accurate intelligence."

"Conceivably," Moldec interjected, "if the Advent structure turned out to _not_ be harmless, as we hope, the team in place could be empowered to interrupt enemy operations. Permanently, if necessary."

"By that point, I would hope that the Navy, or the LRF, would have a contingency plan ready. In the likely case that things go sideways," said Hantar.

"We would be prepared for that possibility," Moldec responded reassuringly. "No one here wants a repeat of the casualties that we suffered with Task Force 768 and the Vasari titan factory. But a similar strike force could be on hand if the ground team went dark."

The eyebrows on Hantar's forehead scrunched together as he thought deeply. Risky. Very risky. And not just for the mission participants. Someone's neck was going to be hanging in a political noose if it failed.

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Director Moldec, I give you authorization, as Deputy Secretary to the Executive, to begin with planning for this mission."

Moldec nodded gravely. "Thank you, Hantar." He gestured to Everdeen. "Lieutenant Colonel, I will be putting you in charge of the operation from here on out."

The female officer acknowledged. She began typing on her holo.

"However," interrupted Hantar, "I will be clearing this with Secretary-General Kincaid. Only his signature will make this official." He stood to leave.

"Kincaid trusts your counsel. If you support this, he will too," said Moldec.

"That may be so, but he won't like it. Interacting with the enemy, when so many in the Parliament are calling for swift retribution, could be a death sentence. He's on shaky ground enough, after the scandal that pirates were being funded with TEC credits," he said. "Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to know the naval intelligence officer responsible for sponsoring such a proposal?" He sent a deliberate look at Everdeen.

She was nonplussed, continuing to type without any discernible reaction. Moldec shrugged. "No idea, Hantar. Might have originated in Section Two. Things can get opaque sometimes. We'll consider conducting an internal investigation."

"That would be a wise decision," said Hantar. He turned to the door, but paused before exiting, and craned his head back to address the room. "Regardless, best of luck to you all. Your work is of vital importance to the survival of the TEC. I will expect to be kept appraised of any new developments regarding this situation."

"You will," said Director Moldec. "Same to you." The director of naval intelligence hesitated for a brief moment, and then spoke, cryptically. "You've been a good friend and an ally to us here at Naval Intelligence, Hantar. Beware of the sharks, Deputy Secretary. Even the weakest ones can smell blood in the water."

The second warning that Hantar had received on Luna Base. Someone, politically powerful, was hunting him. Most likely one of Kincaid's political enemies, like Vedalt, the agitating radical. Any screw-up on Hantar's part, and Kincaid falls too. Neither Everdeen or Moldec had given him clues as to who it was specifically, but he appreciated the gesture of support regardless.

"I'll be sure to speak with Kincaid soon about this mission proposal. Good day, Director." He turned and left the room.

* * *

**A/N:**

Not too much going on in this one, laying the grounds for the next chapter. There isn't much detail on the structure of TEC government-so for now they're a boring parliamentary republic.

**Zackbfunky - **Glad to see you're still enjoying this! Easy to say that you enjoy this the most when there's only 20 or so SOSE fanfics out there, lol.


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